


Welcome to the Jungle

by kiarak (kryptic)



Category: Mortal Kombat - All Media Types
Genre: Aimless Wandering, Loose Canon, Multi, Outworld, Punching, Shooting, Stabbing, kicking, liberal headcanon, mostly tete-a-tete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kiarak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sonya stops Erron from assassinating her allies, the two strike up an unlikely bargain. After an unexpected calamity, the entire deal begins to unravel, and they find themselves alone in the wastes of Outworld, where each must count on the other to survive.</p>
<p>Also, the Mature rating is because it's Mortal Kombat, not because anyone bangs or anything. Sorry to disappoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Got the Money

**Author's Note:**

> While I did make an attempt to stay canon in this story, I think everyone can accept the fact that Mortal Kombat canon is confusing as shit. Since not much is known about Erron Black as a new character, I took the liberty of making a whole bunch of shit up. Still, I did my best. This is my the first MK fic I've ever published, and I'm hoping at least one human being gets enjoyment out of it. Cheers!

☼

It’s a little stupid that someone has left the perfect formation of crates stacked up for him to hide behind. The mercenary supposes that Sergeant Cage and her team feel safe in Earthrealm, as if beyond the reach of Kotal Kahn’s wrath. Still, Erron Black takes every precaution, particularly wary of the boy who can read minds. Feeling someone fiddling around in his head is not a sensation the bounty hunter enjoys.

There is one thing which is not according to plan – one large thing. Jackson Briggs is boarding the aircraft with the four young adults, apparently in lieu of Johnny Cage, who must still be in the hospital. Why an elite team from Special Forces needs to keep the girls’ daddies around to chaperone is beyond the mercenary’s comprehension. But it doesn’t matter. Erron has been staring at the back of Jax’s head for five minutes, and he has the perfect shot to drop the old soldier before he can say “Gotcha”.

In fact, the assassin is so focused on lining up his mark that not only his vision, but his hearing, narrow to a single point. By the time his intuition picks up on the presence behind him, it’s too late. Erron feels the unmistakable pressure of a gun against his back.

“Don’t you fucking move,” warns the memorable voice of Sonya Blade.

The mercenary doesn’t even bother glancing behind him. Both he and the general watch as the four kids, plus one, board the aircraft. Less than a minute later, the plane’s engines rev up and the jet begins to peel away, already going faster than he could ever run. In a few seconds, it’s farther away than a bullet from his pistol can travel, then out of range even to his rifle.

Feeling the acute loss of what was once a perfect opportunity, the gunslinger narrows his black-rimmed eyes in fury and closes a fist around the grip of a revolver.

“Don’t even think…” she begins. But in a flash of silver-grey, Erron’s pistol whips across the general’s face before she can finish her threat.

She grimaces and spits blood, which dribbles down her chin in a way he finds strangely attractive. In another second, he hears the cacophonous sound of her drone firing behind him. He slides forward and bowls Sonya over. Her pistol goes clattering across the tarmac. There’s too much adrenaline in his system to tell if he’s been hit; he can’t feel a damn thing.

Black whips both handguns out, taking one shot at the drone and one at the general. His bullet glances off of the machine and its partner misses Blade completely, but dodging has put Sonya off balance for a moment. Seizing the opening, Erron rushes forward and tackles her to the ground, straddling her legs as he fires rapidly at her face.

Sonya’s metal gauntlets are crossed over her head, the only thing keeping him from blowing that pretty face right off her skull.

“Wait!” she shouts, and Erron, damning himself under his breath, pauses for an instant. That moment in time proves enough for Sonya to gain a foothold, and she rushes on. “Wouldn’t you rather fight _with_ us than against us?”

The cowboy breathes an irritated sigh and presses the muzzle of his revolver to her forehead, cocking it loudly. “I already told you. I stopped giving a damn about Earthrealm a long time ago.”

“Whatever the emperor’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

Erron squints. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that so I don’t blow your pretty head off?”

To his surprise, Sonya laughs bitterly. “I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t _one_ reason.”

She uncrosses her wrists, leaving her face unprotected so that she can look at him. Noon is bright overhead, casting a halo around the shadowed form of Erron Black. The brim of his hat is just large enough to shade her eyes from the sun.

“Call off the drone,” he says abruptly, and presses the gun even harder to her head.

Sonya presses a button on her gauntlet and the drone deactivates, sinking slowly to the ground, where it parks.

“Now take off the gloves.”

The gun isn’t digging any less into her forehead. Sonya scowls and rolls her eyes. “Really?”

“I didn’t get where I am today by trusting people,” he replies curtly.

With a permanent grimace on her face, General Blade peels off her gauntlets and casts them aside. They bounce with a plastic-metallic crack that sounds almost plaintive.

Black flicks on the handgun’s safety and holsters it with an unnecessary flourish. Sonya feels much better not having it pointed at her head, but she’s beginning to feel her injuries now that she’s coming down from the adrenaline.

“Anything else you wanna take off while we’re here?”

Only after hearing the flirtatious purr in Black’s voice does the general actually become aware of the position they’re in. Not even thinking, she shoves him in the center of the chest with both hands, hard enough to make him stagger up and back onto his feet to avoid toppling over.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” he says evenly, but his calm tone is at direct odds with the fact that he now has a revolver aimed right at her chest.

“What about our deal?” Sonya demands.

Black narrows his eyes. “I still don’t buy it.”

“Why not? Money’s all you care about, isn’t t?”

“That’s right,” he replies, taking no offense. “Which is why I’m so concerned. I don’t think your government can afford me.”

“Believe me, we have the funding.”

“And why only now are you making this offer?”

“Outworld and Earthrealm are now at war. The fewer people on Kotal Kahn’s side, the better. And it seems like you’d be the easiest to convince, considering that all you want is to get paid.”

“What if I decide that I’ve found some loyalty to the emperor after all?” he asks, entirely out of curiosity and the urge to keep Sonya talking, certainly not because he really feels any devotion to his boss.

Sonya doesn’t seem to buy it. “Come on. How eager are you to throw your lot in with Kotal Kahn? Believe me, Raiden’s pissed. You don’t want to side against him.”

“Really,” Erron says flatly. “Because it seems like his help hasn’t been much benefit to you lately.”

“Trust me. I think he might have gone off the deep end after Shinnok’s return. This time, with Outworld, he’s gonna shoot to kill.”

Erron flips his pistol around one finger and shoves it into the holster. “I always shoot to kill.”

Sonya takes this as a good sign, however. At least he has one weapon away, though she knows he could just pull it out again in a microsecond.

“Consider it. What’s a human doing on Outworld’s side, anyway? You belong to Earthrealm.”

He seems to bristle, tilting his head down slightly so that his hat shadows his face all the way down to his chin. “That’s where you’re wrong, lady. Outworld is my home now.”

“Where you make your home is irrelevant. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with Earthrealmers in power than Outworlders?”

“I don’t think there’s any need to bring race into it,” he says in a molasses-slow drawl that signals a smile underneath his mask. “’Sides, I like Outworlders. They’re simple. And willing to spend a lot of cash on killing each other.”

Sonya raises a brow. “And Earthrealmers aren’t?”

“You have a point.”

Erron falls silent for a moment, his brows drawing down as he ponders the offer. “I’ll do it for the price you quoted me. Twice what I’m making now. And,” he adds slyly, “a drink with you.”

Sonya represses the urge to either grimace or vomit, and does neither. Instead, she manages to maintain an expression mostly resembling her standard level of bitchface, maybe a notch or two higher than usual. “How about we discuss it with the rest of the team? Then I’ll be able to approve your … funding.”

“You holier-‘n-thou Earthrealmers wouldn’t be planning to spring a trap on me, now, would you?”

“That’s not how we operate, Black. Unlike some.” Sonya gives him a scalding look, still furious over Erron’s complicity in kidnapping her daughter, not once, but twice.

“Don’t be sour,” he says. “I was never gonna hurt your girl.”

“Except for the part where you almost got her killed by a gang of psychotic thugs.”

“Blame Kano for that. I hear you two have a history.”

Sonya only glares at him, not convinced, but she doesn’t want to jeopardize their partnership before it’s even begun. She sets the issue aside; it’s a personal matter, anyway, and retribution can wait until after the real job is done.

“Let’s get back to base,” she says, turning on her heel and marching down the airstrip. “We can talk there.”

●

Black walks through the Special Forces command center with a palpable aura of distrust. His hands hover at his holsters with every swaggering step like he’s getting ready for an OK-Corral style duel. Always, he keeps a watchful eye on Sonya, as if he might burn up in flames if she’s not by his side.

Before they start any negotiating, both the general and her new friend need to stop at the medic’s tent. Sonya sits still, hissing softly as a nurse dabs alcohol on her facial wounds, and watches from across the way as Erron Black has a wary conversation with the camp surgeon.

“Just sew it up,” he demands impatiently. “I don’t need anesthetic.”

Sonya watches as the cowboy extricates himself from his cape and bandolier and shapes them into the mass of organized chaos that some men try to pass off as “folding”. As the doctor begins to work on him, Black holds his hat protectively in his lap. His eyes, still suspicious, leave the surgeon for a moment and flick up to hold General Blade’s. Erron winks, only once, and returns to squinting down at the young soldier as he applies medical glue to the bullet wounds.

“Fancy,” the mercenary drawls.

“This should speed up the healing process by a couple of days,” the medic says. “Just try not to get it wet, don’t use any alcohol or iodine to clean the wound, and–“

“Yeah, yeah. Got it,” Erron says impatiently, waving the young man away as he stands up. His hat goes back on his head and his clothes under his arm. He faces Sonya squarely as if daring her to look at him. “Come on, General. Time’s a-wastin’.”

Contemplating the arduous partnership that lies in front of them, Sonya wonders if she’s made the right decision as she leads Erron to the command tent.

Inside the enclosure, they are very much alone. It’s dark, with the blueish glow of screens serving as the only illumination. Erron walks once around the long, polished table and leans onto it, palms flat on its edge and fingertips pointed outward.

“So what do you want me to do? Kill the Kahn?”

“No. That would just lead to more problems in the long run. We want you to help us prepare an attack on Z’unkahrah without Kotal noticing.”

It’s an awfully ambitious plan, but Erron doesn’t have scruples over whether or not the Special Forces will survive a direct strike to the Outworld capital. Rather, he’s more concerned with what the repercussions will be if they are unsuccessful.

“He’ll suspect someone in his inner circle,” Black tells the general. “Obviously the one from Earthrealm more than any other.”

“So we blame it on D’vorah. The Kahn already suspects that she was responsible for setting Sergeant Cage’s team free. She also could’ve been the one who leaked Special Forces this information.”

Erron stares at her for a few moments, weighing the viability of this excuse. “So what do you want from me?”

“Help us set up a base camp in the area. Keep Kotal Kahn’s soldiers off our backs. Help us secure access to essential resources for the troops – food, water, shelter.”

“Your soldiers are in for a surprise,” he says with dark humor. “Most of ‘em wouldn’t even last two days in Outworld.”

“That’s why we want you. You know the place better than any other Earthrealmer.”

“Hm. So this is something you’ve been thinkin’ about for a while?” After a minute’s consideration, staring down at the plans laid out on the table, Erron raises his eyes to General Blade’s face and extends a hand.

She has a firm handshake, her fingers as strong as any man he’s ever met. Once she releases his hand, Erron pulls over a slip of paper and writes out a series of numbers in plain script. Sonya’s eyes narrow in typical misgiving fashion as she accepts it from him.

“That’s an account number. American,” he gives by way of explanation, “for the money. Or you could just pay me in gold, like the Kahn does.”

“So you’re one of those ‘invest-in-gold’ types,” Sonya says, lifting her head. “Why am I not surprised?”

Erron fixes her with a look of minimal concern. “I like things that are tangible. Gold, guns. Drinks with pretty women.”

Where they were only gently depressed before, the general’s brows now sink down and draw together to create a mighty rift. “How much more do I need to pay you to forget that part of the deal?”

“I couldn’t put a price on your company,” he says smoothly.

“Well, how about you try your hardest?”

The cowboy shakes his head. “No.”

He paces around the meeting table like a circling predator. Sonya moves to keep herself on the opposite side from him.

“You see, Kotal Kahn has plenty of gold, but there’s one thing in particular that he can’t give me. And Mileena, well, she had those …” He raises a hand of clawed fingers to his mouth, gesturing vaguely. “… teeth. Not exactly my type. But you, general…” Sonya crosses her arms over her chest as Erron pauses to give her a long, lascivious look from head to toe. “You got something neither of them can offer, and you should use it to your advantage if you wanna keep me on your side.”

Her jaw sticks out impetuously. “You’re willing to put yourself on the losing side of a cross-realm war because I won’t have a drink with you?”

“I think you’re worth it, sugar,” the cowboy shoots back, smooth as butter. “And, besides,” he continues, twirling his pistols in his hands, “I’m never on the losing side.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Erron doesn’t miss a beat. “Serious as a heart attack.”

Sonya stays silent, weighing her options.Black is an insufferable, flirtatious ham, but it’s not like she hasn’t already married and had a kid with one of those before. She can probably handle imbibing a glass of alcohol next to one if it means saving the world. Just this once.

“Fine,” she says, throwing up her hands, “for fuck’s sake. I will have one, _one_ drink with you, that’s it. After that, it’s _over_. I don’t have to so much as look at you again outside the confines of the operation.”

“Deal,” he says, gripping her hand on the shake and pulling her in just a little bit closer. She can smell gunpowder like it’s soaked into every material on his body. The mercenary’s enigmatic, dark eyes peer out at her keenly. “And I pick the place.”


	2. Fun and Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a helicopter lands in the desert and Erron Black gets beat up by yet another girl.

☼

Erron stands in the helicopter with the grab-strap wrapped tightly around his hand. Shifting sands and patches of scrub-brush race below him as they cross through the desert. Keeping track of their whereabouts is made more difficult by their pace; Black is accustomed to the speed of either a mount or his own two legs, and the zooming speed of the chopper is so dissonant from both that he’s almost dizzied by it.

In the cockpit, Sonya and the pilot have their destination’s coordinates punched in, but Erron has never been one to trust to technology, especially not the kind owned and operated by Special Forces. Tried and true methods are more his style; like his single action revolvers, the only tracking device he trusts is a classic – the one right between his eyes.

The dust and weeds below begin to morph into shrubs, then trees. The land goes from tan, to brown, to green, to the rich almost-black that signals an overabundance of water. The Kuatan Jungle lies below, its treetops swaying gently as if to distract onlookers from the peril lurking within.

“I don’t like this,” he says, a frown darkening his face as he clenches a hand on the back of the pilot’s seat. “Set her down.”

“We’re only half a mile out from the destination.”

“I don’t particularly care how far out we are. You can’t see an inch into that jungle.”

“It’ll be fine.”

The light of a sun bursts at the edge of his vision, followed by a crack like thunder. Before he can even turn his head, the helicopter rocks with a sudden, explosive force. The floor rushes up to meet him and Erron lands hard on his back, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Meanwhile, the entire vehicle is rocking beneath him, and he feels himself sliding headfirst towards the open door.

Disoriented and running on instinct alone, he rolls to the side and away from the yawning gap and the drop that waits beyond. He lurches to his feet, feeling like a sailor on his sealegs as the chopper continues to move wildly beneath them. Casting his eyes about, he finally sees the cause of their wild movements. A smoking hole shows him clear blue sky through the ceiling of the chopper, and based on its placement, Erron would be surprised if all of the rotors were still intact.

The crew brought with them can be found in various states of disarray toward the back of the craft. Some bleed on the floor, struck by the explosion, while others cling desperately to whatever they can grab, trying to pull themselves into an upright position. Black moves determinedly away from the entire motley crew and instead propels himself towards the front of the plane again, where Sonya’s yellow braid sways frantically to and fro. She shouts orders to the pilot, but without a sense of desperation, firm military training and what Erron might call nerves of steel keeping her face free of panic.

The cowboy bites back a tempting “I-told-you-so” when he draws within earshot of the two. The windshield offers a view of the landscape rocking wildly beneath them. Wisely, either the general or the pilot has decided to take them away from the jungle that produced the projectile which blew a hole in their aircraft. On the other hand, however, the only other place to go in this region of Outworld is the desert. Those shifting sands now whirl beneath them, a distance which seems to grow shorter with each passing second.

Veins in his arm stick out from his skin as every muscle tightens, his grip on the back of Sonya’s seat the only thing keeping him upright as the helicopter bucks like a bronco underfoot.

“Can you set it down?” he demands. No answer greets him, which is answer enough. “We have to jump,” Erron says, words directed to Sonya alone.

The look she shoots him over her shoulder is exactly the one he expected. But as the desert rushes up to meet them, Black can’t spare a single millisecond towards caring how the woman looks at him. Whether or not she’ll thank him later, she’s the only person on the craft whose life has any value to him. He refuses to lose the deal she’s offered him, especially since it is the direct cause of what looks to be a swift reunion with the wastelands of Outworld.

Erron reaches around her and unbuckles her seatbelt, ignoring the earsplitting shout in his ear. He grabs hold of the end of her braid and wraps it a few times around his fist like reins. She doesn’t really have a choice as he pulls her out of her seat, unable to fight the force he exerts as it pulls directly up on the crown of her head. Erron loosens his grip on her hair so he can tighten his arm around her waist. The words he says to her are rushed in before she can overpower him.

“Tuck ‘n’ roll, baby,” he says into her ear as his shadowed eyes watch the sands below.

When the perfect window finally opens, Black shoves the general through the open door. Pure instinct makes Sonya curl up into a ball, a beautiful technique born of her gymnastic abilities. Erron follows her a second later. One breathless moment passes before the ground hits him. He rolls, feeling the sand tear away the force of his fall. When he finally comes to a halt, it’s at the bottom of a human-shaped skid mark on a baking hot dune. The feeling of sand sticking to the sweat on his skin is nice, of all things, like he’s finally back in his true element.

He stands carefully, running his hands over his body to check for injuries. There is a bruised rib, maybe, or a hairline fracture if he’s unlucky, which he probably is. But at least his hat is unharmed, though it flew a good few yards farther than the rest of him. Erron picks it up and dusts it off, feeling an immediate sense of ease as it throws shade onto his eyes. Moments later, he feels it fly off of his head again, along with the gigantic wallop of a booted foot against his ribcage. If that rib wasn’t fractured before, he thinks as he falls to the sand, it is now.

“Bastard! We could have recovered that!”

Erron raises his head, but leaves his body limp on the soft sand. “Maybe you could, and maybe you couldn’t, but I’m not taking any chances on death via fiery crash in the desert.”

“Then take your own chances! You had no right to take _mine_ , too.”

“No need to thank me,” he drawls with sarcasm dripping from his mouth as he rises onto an elbow.

Sonya responds only by kicking him in the stomach. He groans and grabs his abdomen as he slides further backwards down the dune, but doesn’t bother fighting back. It’ll only make things worse.

“I stopped you from getting glassed with your crew,” he says, half wheezes. “And in a few minutes, I’m fixin’ to start leading you out of this desert alive. So you’d better stop beating on me if you wanna survive, ‘cause I doubt you’ll last two hours out here alone.”

She drops her arms to her sides, cocking a hip. He can’t tell whether she’s bought it, still thinking, or maybe just deciding where to kick him next, but he takes the opportunity for what it’s worth.

Erron rolls back up onto his feet and sets the hat back onto his head, wiggling it a bit so that it sticks this time. He puts a hand on each revolver just to check that they’re there, then one on his canteen. It’s full, for which he feels tempted to praise some deity, but Black knows that the only one he has to thank is himself, for never letting up on the sweet paranoia that has kept him alive these hundred-some years. Erron Black laughs. It’s good to be back.

“Look out, General. You’re gonna fill up with sand, standing around with your trap open.”

Erron chuckles at the look she shoots him, but she does close her mouth. That little hat she wears shades her eyes, but not an inch of that shadow falls on her neck or the lower half of her face.

“You’re wearing the wrong hat. You’re gonna get a mean burn on the back of your neck,” he says matter-of-factly.

Sonya’s eyebrows flatten into a dark line across her forehead. “Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to grab my sunblock before you _threw me out of a moving aircraft.”_

“The chopper might have something we can use, if we can find it,” he replies, tilting his head up to squint at the sky, staring in the direction that the helicopter was last headed. “Or what’s left of it. Otherwise, you and I are gonna be mighty hot and awful thirsty.”

“If we’d stayed with the crew, we’d still have those supplies.”

“And we also wouldn’t need them, on account of being dead.” He twitches a hand at her and starts striding up the shallow-sloped face of a dune. “Come on, sugar. We’ve got a ways to go yet.”

The breath she takes behind him signals the fact that she’s about to say something; he doesn’t even need to look at her to know it. Besides, he fully expected her to rise to his teasing eventually.

“Listen, Black,” she begins, and he lets her turn him around by the shoulder, happy that he doesn’t have to hide his grin. “Let’s get one thing straight first, if we’re going to be working together…”

Her eyebrows are drawn down into a V, and he can hear the motherhood in her voice. His ears pick up two decades of lectures to her daughter in that voice, bleeding from her personal life into her work. The sound is universal; it’s the echo of angry mothers everywhere, one of the few things from the Earthrealm of his youth that has made it through to the modern day unscathed. He tips his head back and watches her mouth move while she speaks, not quite listening to the words as much as he does the rising and falling of her voice.

“… and that means you _stop_ calling me sugar, or sweetheart, or anything else besides _my name_. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” he answers, without really meaning it. He stumbles back into a walking step, sand shifting to absorb the toes of his boots as they continue up the slope. “Though, I’ve never called you sweetheart. Wishful thinking, maybe?”

“In your dreams,” she says with a derisive snort.

His retort is deep and smooth, chocolatey and clearly well-practiced. “We could make that dream a reality.”

By contrast, Sonya’s voice is harsh and cutting as a razorblade. “Not a chance.”

The conversation is cut short as soon as they crest the hill. Erron can see a pillar of smoke rising on the horizon. He doesn’t need to tell Sonya what it is or what it means, and he certainly doesn’t need to say that they’re heading for it. On the contrary, he shouts for her to hold up when she begins to hurry towards it too quickly, moving through the soft sand at a pace likely to exhaust her before long.

“Slow down, General. I’m not interested in carrying you all the way back to Earthrealm.”

She turns around and fixes him with what is not the first nasty look she’s given him, but certainly is the meanest. The way her eyes are fixed upon him, he might as well be a roach under her boot. “My men might still be alive in that chopper!”

“So who’s going to pull them out of the wreckage after you and I die trying to sprint our way through the desert? Slow it down. Anyone worth saving can wait a few more minutes.”

He can tell she’s not happy about it, but she backs down, falling into step beside him. Only the shuffle and shift of sand makes noise between them. In the frighteningly wide and clear blue sky above them, a buzzard circles.

As they draw closer to the site of the crash, the scent of burning hair begins to slip past his mask. During the long walk to the vast trench dug by the copter’s skidding crash, Erron battles the inner temptation to tell Sonya to wait elsewhere, to let him go through the wreckage for supplies and spare her the sight of her crew. But those are ideas from another time, and he knows that she would probably just hit him if he said anything of the sort – or worse, lecture him again.

Disregarding his previous advice, Sonya rushes the home stretch and runs to the chopper, which is wrapped around itself in a tangle of metal vaguely resembling the bunched-up twigs of a bird’s nest. One of her crew is impaled on a broken piece of the helicopter’s frame, mercifully dead. She takes his dog tags and shuts his eyes, knowing that it is all she can do to lay him to rest.

Erron picks over the wreck separately, his eyes far less connected by emotion or any sense of duty and fixated on two points only – one, to salvage as many supplies as possible, and two, to put any survivors out of their misery before Sonya can stop him. There’s no need to worry about the man who he pries the first aid kit from, however; his fingers are still warm from the heat of the crash and the sun, but it seems that the blood loss killed him before he could slap a butterfly bandage or sixty on the oozing divide between the upper and lower halves of his body.

Even after all this time, Erron still isn’t used to the way death _smells_. The sight of it, the sound, even the feeling of causing it are all things he can handle. But there is something about the stench of death that seems to stain his lungs, and he can never scour it out.

Muffled groaning catches his attention. Erron and Sonya arrive before the pilot at the same time. The poor bastard is fused to his seat, the belt melted into his skin by the heat of impact. Some of his intestines have become out-testines, and the blood vessels in his eyes have burst like soap bubbles, staining the whites of his sclera deep scarlet. Once again, Black might be tempted to turn Sonya’s face away, but he can’t spare a thought to chivalry as he stares down at the man’s body.

It was the pilot’s fault in the first place that they were shot down; he was flying too close to the treeline, as Erron told him. But none of that matters when he looks down at the man’s body. The would-haves and should-haves melt away and Erron is left only with what _is_ , right now. And what _is_ is this man, much too slowly dying, far away from home. And what he _needs_ is a bullet.

No request for permission passes the mercenary’s lips. Erron just levels his revolver at the man’s head and fires. A quick death is better than an attractive one, the cowboy has always thought. Though the pilot’s face and a large percentage of his skull have disappeared, the bright side is that his pain has vanished as well.

The heavy peace that enters Erron’s mind after a kill is interrupted as Sonya wraps her garroting cord around his neck. The cowboy responds instinctively by grabbing her hair – a dirty move – and steadying her head as he presses the hot muzzle of his gun to the soft skin under her jaw.

Sonya shrieks and lets go of one end of the cord immediately, which is all he needs to pull away. When he does, he feels like his windpipe is still constricted, and braces his hands on his knees as he sucks in deep, steadying breaths and tries to convince himself that he can breathe.

“We even?” he chokes.

Sonya, with her hand to the burn under her jaw, gives him a glare that could peel paint. “We are definitely not even.”

To that, he says nothing. Erron is not in the mood for joviality or witticisms anymore. “Find something to camp in,” he growls.

“What?”

“We need to sleep. While I’d like to do it right out under the sky, I’m afraid we’re not gonna be getting much shuteye with the sun burnin’ the skin off our faces.”

“We’re going to sleep during the daytime?” she asks, skeptical at first, but she figures it out pretty quickly by the time she reaches her next sentence. “… And travel at night, when it’s cool.”

Erron just nods. “If you can find any water, you know what to do with it.” He puts a hand on his canteen and lifts it to show her. The sweet sound of liquid sloshes up to them from inside.

“You’re not sharing?” she asks skeptically, one eyebrow raised.

“I will, if I need to. I’d rather not need to.”

 

In the end, they do manage to find a tent and a supply of rations, mostly untouched by the crash. The mercenary is still uneasy, knowing that the same people who shot them down are likely to come looking for the wreck and any survivors. If they do find the crash site, which won’t be difficult, a good tracker will be able to infer that at least one person survived long enough to put a bullet between the pilot’s eyes.

Just the thought of what might come next has his heart pumping blood and adrenaline furiously through his veins, warming him up to an unbearable temperature in the cruel Outworld sun. They need to separate themselves from the crash as quickly as possible, but the effort could kill them. Making a difficult decision, Black decides to set up the tent only a mile away from the helicopter in the shadow of a dune, and hope that’s enough to hide them from view.

“Ugh.” He sighs, hands on his hips, beholding the tent as it stands. It isn’t large, only big enough to accommodate three people at a stretch, but it _is_ army green. While that might have been great camouflage for the jungle, it serves the opposite purpose out in the white-gold sand.

With a last, disgusted look at the scene, he ducks inside, falling to his elbow once he pushes through. He leaves the cloth flap open to let air flow into the impossibly stuffy enclosure. Sonya is already sticky with sweat, her arms bare without her Special Forces jacket. Her slender fingers twist the skin above her tricep so that she can peer at it, likely checking for injury, if the first aid kid lying open between her legs is anything to go by.

“You hurt?” Erron asks, dropping the smart-ass routine he’s kept up since they met and trying for the first time to sound honest. He sets his hat down and lays out his poncho as a blanket, sprawling on top of it as he marches through the tricky procedure of removing the myriad belts and bits of leather that hold his outfit together.

“Just a scratch,” Sonya replies after a moment, and he believes her. Unlike him, the general is flexible and unbelievably lithe, and she took the impact of the ‘copter crash with impeccable skill. The only injuries she’s likely to have are the ones he’s given her.

Which reminds him.

He reaches out to tip up her chin with the gentlest touch of one blunt fingertip. There’s an angry red, round burn from his gun on the tender skin under her jaw. Not life-threatening, probably, but, “Looks like it smarts.”

She gives him a look which _screams_ ‘back off’, her nostrils flaring briefly and her lips curling into a frown for much longer. “I’ll be fine.”

Erron shrugs and gives up on his companion for the time being. He pulls his shirt off over his head and thrusts it into the pile with the rest of his clothes and equipment. As soon as he looks down at his chest, he sees the mess of purple and yellow bruising over the ribs on his left side. Touching and pressing on them gently, he feels what he thinks might be a break in one. All he can really do with the current supplies, though, is try to get some rest. He takes a long, hard look at the bullet wounds in his chest, still covered in that “glue” the doctor put over them. It seems to be tough stuff, acting as surrogate skin and keeping a shiny coating over the wounds themselves.

“I’ll take first watch,” he says.

“Are you serious?” asks Sonya. Before he can answer, she holds up a hand to shush him. “How are you planning to convince me that you’re not going to leave me here as soon as I fall asleep and go meet up with your Outworld friends? I’m sure they know where to find you, considering they’re probably the ones who just shot us down.”

“You think I planned for all this to happen?” An edge of irritation has started to bite into his voice. He stops himself before he can work himself into any kind of indignation. Whatever her reservations are, they’re to be expected.

“You had every reason to,” Sonya says. “Between Earthrealm, the Kahn, the Black Dragon, and Mileena, you’ve been rolling into bed with just about anyone who’ll have you. It’s only a matter of time before you rack up another betrayal.”

“But now that I’ve rolled into bed with you, _General,”_ he says, making her title sound like a term of endearment, “I’m not so sure I want to get out.” He looks at her a moment more, then lies back, picks up his hat, and drapes it over his face. “You can take first watch. Try not to kill me in my sleep.”


	3. Everything You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's rude to ask a lady or a cowboy their age.

●

Sunset is nearly upon them when he finishes his shift, and Erron is ready to start moving out. He tries to wake Sonya at first by calling her name, but the woman is in a deep sleep. What’s more, it seems to be troubled by some kind of nightmare. Though she hasn’t made a single sound the entire time she’s been at rest, her brow is furrowed even more deeply in slumber than it usually is while she’s awake, and the muscles in her arms, neck, and shoulders are flexed like steel cable. Wary of any violent, instinctive reaction she might have to being woken, Erron raises two fingers to his mouth and blows an ear-splitting whistle, one that he knows is perfectly capable of calling a man from a quarter of a mile across the plains.

Sonya starts, yelps, and rises, her hand flying instantly to her sidearm – or where her sidearm would be, if someone hadn’t already taken it. The cowboy chuckles and offers her pistol to her, butt first. He’s learned his lesson before; it wouldn’t have been the first time a woman let the daylight into him for waking her up, though under very different circumstances.

“We’ve gotta go now, General,” he says. “Pack your plunder.”

The general makes no reply, but joins him in a flurry of movement as they both dress for the hike ahead of them and gather up their things. Her military efficiency is a close match for his decades of experience; the two finish dressing and packing at the same time. Still silent, they go about the tedious business of dismantling the tent. Erron swings it onto his back with his rifle and raises a brow, expecting a word of argument from his companion. She, however, says nothing, and they continue on their way soundlessly, Sonya following just a half-step behind Black.

He turns the brim of his hat up to the sky. Sunset in the desert is beautiful, with the light dissipating through the dust in the sky, coloring the air in rose tones and hues of yellow and gold. There is no hiding a contented sigh when it rises from his chest. Erron is glad to be home.

“So, tell me something, General…” he begins after a few long minutes of silence.

“What?” she asks in the the half-polite, half-rude, all-impatient tone that seems to have been driven into every American soldier in the past hundred and fifty years. Erron isn’t dissuaded. Not even a little.

“You had a kid with that idiot in the knuckle dusters?”

Sonya scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I knew this would come up eventually.”

“What was the attraction?” he continues, still not deterred.

“ _Don’t_ do this, Black. Just don’t. You don’t wanna see my bad side.”

“I think I’ve already seen your bad side,” he drawls.

Sonya glares daggers into his back. “That’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you if you don’t shut up about Johnny.”

“ _Johnny?_ Don’t you mean Mister Cage?”

“Seriously, cowboy. Back off.”

The sound of a pistol cocking behind him pricks up his ears. Erron laughs and decides to give her a break. Besides, he thinks she might make good on her threats and actually shoot him.

Sunset turns to dusk, the colors in the sky fading to grey and steel blue, then navy. He watches as the first pinpricks of stars begin to show in the sky, so much brighter in the desert than they are even in Z’unkarrah, and certainly moreso than at any settlement on Earth. When he first came to Outworld, it was strange to see their asterisms, so different from the patterns he had come to live by at home. But a hundred years’ intimate study of the new stars has made them more familiar to him than those of Earthrealm, though never quite as dear to his heart.

“Nice night out,” he observes, once again breaking the gathered silence. “Be careful of the wildlife. If you see anything, kill it. If you can’t, try anyway.”

Sonya is gazing up at the stars herself, seemingly thinking as deeply about them as the cowboy. But at the merest suggestion that she might not be on alert, she scowls (he can’t see it in the darkness, but he knows) and tightens her grip on her gun.

“It’s cold as shit,” she says.

Erron glances back at her. It does get cold at night, cold enough that he’s let down the thick wool of his poncho around his shoulders. A slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Want me to warm you up?” he asks.

Sonya snaps in reply. “Not a chance.”

There is a shuffling of sand from a few yards away. Erron aims and fires three shots, each flash from his gun’s muzzle absolutely blinding in the dark. The movement stops. Holding her pistol in both hands, Sonya joins the cowboy to examine the corpse.

The thing that awaits them is difficult to identify, even from close up. Stars are still dashing through her vision. Whatever the creature is, it reeks of garbage. Its reptilian body seems to be covered in spikes of all sizes. Erron nudges it cautiously with a boot.

“Don’t know as that would make for good eating.”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.”

“Come on, princess, where do you think you are?” Erron glances her way to give an admonishing look, though she obviously can’t see it. At last, he gives the animal one last, slightly forlorn kick, and turns away from it. “Fine. I’ll leave that, but if nothing better comes up in the next few miles, you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“And if I die from eating some toxic abomination,” she snaps back, “I’ll blame you.”

“That’ll be tough, considering you’ll be dead.”

Sonya leaves that comment without retaliation. A few minutes later, though, as they continue walking, she suddenly decides to pipe up.

“… Why did you come to Outworld?”

Oh, how the tables have turned. Confronted with a question that he would very much not like to answer, Erron goes cold and slows in his step, right hand going to his revolver for no reason other than that he feels on edge.

“I won a ticket by mail-in sweepstakes.” Though the words frame a joke, his voice is flat and humorless.

“No, I’m serious,” she protests.

“Leave it alone,” Erron warns, getting short with her for the first time.

“So you think it’s all right to ask about my ex-husband, but I can’t ask you why you came to live in this outer-dimensional shithole?”

“Yeah, sounds about right,” he replies. “And you threatened to shoot me if I kept asking you about ‘Johnny,’ so let’s just leave it there. Unless you want to tell me why you married such a jackass.”

“I couldn’t tell you,” she says honestly with a sigh.

He chuckles. A moment passes while he considers answering her earlier question. Instead of standing idly by, Erron unties his canteen from his belt and reaches behind his head to undo the strap holding on his mask. “I came to Outworld because Earthrealm was starting to change,” he says, telling the truth this time, even if it is a significantly pared-down version of the real story.

The mask slides off, sagging below his chin to rest on his chest. Cool night air touches his face, feeling unbelievably pleasant, as does the long gulp of water he allows to slip down his throat. Without anything to eat or drink all day, his body is beginning to feel just as dry as the desert currently surrounding them.

As he covers the canteen and goes to refasten his mask again, he hears Sonya’s breathing change beside him. Glancing over at her, he sees that she is peering at his face curiously, with no indication that she feels the slightest bit ashamed for being caught staring.

“Can I help you?” he drawls.

Her eyes travel over his thin lips, framed by lines of laughter and displeasure, to his nose and the little bump on its bridge, and wind up meeting his gaze.

Sonya shrugs and sighs. “Don’t know what I was expecting,” she says, hooking her thumbs into her belt loops.

“Big, pointy teeth maybe?” Erron offers. “In that case, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

He leaves the mask off a little while longer, though he can already feel the desert air beginning to dry his throat. Without a word, he presses his flask into Sonya’s hands and gives her a small nod. As she drinks, he fishes out a bandana from the inner folds of his vest. Shaking it out, he trades that to her in return for the canteen, which he ties to his belt once more.

“You’re losing water,” he says, studying her chapped lips in the moonlight.

“I know,” she replies, but it is not an admonition. She actually seems to appreciate the help, inasmuch as she isn’t openly refusing his gesture. She ties the bandana behind her head, just above her long braid. The sight is actually humorous, making her look like a desperado pretending to be a Special Forces agent, but Erron tries not to laugh – his smile will be obvious without his mask on. With that in mind, he pulls the strap back up and fastens it, where it disappears into his shaggy, light brown hair.

“This smells like dirt,” Sonya observes. “And I must look like an idiot.”

“Least you’re alive,” Erron says back. He pushes his hat back onto his head and lets the poncho down from around his shoulders. It gets cold at night in the desert, and the air is beginning to nip at his exposed arms. At least there isn’t any cause to worry about Sonya, whose long sleeves and hat should be insulating her well.

Satisfied, Erron ends their impromptu rest break, starting a sandy, sliding descent down the face of the slope they had been standing atop.

In spite of Erron’s worries, it isn’t long before the two encounter other animal life. Perhaps an hour passes as they march through the desert under the huge, white moon. The cowboy keeps his rifle in hand, every sense pricked up on alert for any movement besides their own. When he sweeps his gaze over a distant dune, he sees a dark shape hopping across the sand. Falling to his knee, the cowboy takes aim. He lets a deep breath flow through him, stilling every muscle in his body save his trigger finger. His bullet zooms right through the creature’s eye.

His antics have certainly caught Sonya’s attention. She’s just as curious as he is to walk over and have a look at it. From up close, the beast looks to be some kind of cross between a jackrabbit and a nightmare. Tufts of matted fur cover its body like dreadlocks. Its joints are huge, bony, and sharp. The worst thing, however, are its eyes – red like a rabbit, but set forward in its skull like a predator’s.

Erron kneels down beside it and contemplates both its edibility and the task of cleaning it. As a wordless expression of her consent, Sonya hands him her own knife, which he accepts with a nod. With nearly 170 years’ worth of skill, Erron skins the animal in record time, cleaning out the body and tossing aside the waste. The animal’s blood soaks dark red into the desert sand.

“We’ve got military rations in the tent,” the general points out.

He shrugs. “You’re welcome to eat ‘em, if you like, but I figured we should save most of those for later.” Erron sharply jerks a piece of flesh from the dead animal’s bones. “Lady’s choice.”

“What a gentleman,” she says sarcastically.

He fixes her with a warning look to match his tone. “Where I come from, that word actually used to mean something.”

Skeptical, Sonya crosses her arms over her chest. “And where are you from?”

His brown eyes study her in the corners of his vision. He eyes her with deep mistrust for a long, silent moment, then rolls one muscular shoulder. “…Las Vegas.”

Sonya immediately snorts. “Hate to burst your bubble, but Vegas is—“

“Yeah,” he cuts her off, looking impatient, “I know.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about? You’re not even old enough to remember anything before the 80’s.”

Erron laughs darkly and says nothing, just bundles up the animal’s meat and kicks sand over its carcass.

 

☼

As dawn begins to rise over the dunes, they set up the tent together. Sonya continues to peer at him.

Erron eats his dinner, fresh and bloody, as he sits in front of the tent flap, his legs crossed, looking out over their path as the wind gradually sweeps their footsteps away. The general emerges and settles down beside him, gnawing on something from a shiny silver package that looks to be even less appetizing than what he’s eating, which at the least is definitely food.

“One night’s hard walking should take us to the jungle’s edge. Maybe two, depending.”

“And what do we do once we get there?”

He grins. “I don’t know, General. I thought you were calling the shots.”

She shoots him a menacing look. “Just answer the damn question.”

“Well,” he says, swallowing a bloody chunk. “We won’t last long out here without the right supplies. I might know a place where we can get some, but it’ll take us out of the way maybe four or five miles.”

Already feeling a pang of suspicion, Sonya narrows her eyes. “How do you know about this place?”

The cowboy shows her a look of resignation. “I had a target once who was a smuggler. He offered to tell me about his supply caches all across the desert, if I let him live.”

“And did you?” she asks, her voice low with skepticism. Sonya thinks she already knows the answer.

Erron confirms her suspicions immediately. “Only in my memory.”

He rolls one shoulder, then the other, and buries his hands in the sand, rubbing both palms together to scour off the grease and blood. “So, do you wanna go, or not?”

Sonya turns to face him fully and stares him down for at least a quarter of a minute. “If this is a trap, I’m taking you down with me.”

“Such distrust,” he observes dryly. “I’d be more subtle if I wanted to lead you into an ambush.” Erron sighs and wipes his mouth with the inside of his forearm. “…Think your people’ll send recon after us?”

Sonya nods. “It’ll probably be a few days, considering.”

“Then I guess we lay low for as long as we can and try to get found by the right people. If not…” Erron grins. “You can always forget about all this soldiering and run off with me.”

Her eyes roll. “I’d rather be kidnapped by Tarkatans.”

The cowboy shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching back. “Careful what you wish for.”


	4. Take It From Me

●

Erron is dreaming about rolling plains when a gunshot pierces his reverie. He has his gun cocked and pointed in the direction of the noise almost before he opens his eyes. Much to his surprise, he sees Sonya with her pistol pointed straight down towards the ground and a smoking hole in the floor of the tent.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Scorpion,” she says simply, and he spends a second looking for a yellow-suited ninja before he spots a large, black arachnid resting in pieces on the ground.

Erron reaches over and pops off the creature’s stinger, then crunches its body into his mouth.

“Thanks.”

Sonya pulls her face into a look of disgust. “That’s not gonna kill you?”

“Nope,” he says around six spidery legs.

It seems to be dusk outside; Erron pops open the flap and squints at the greyish sky. “We might as well get moving. Sun’s down.”

“I know,” she says. “I just came in to wake you up.”

Erron shrugs and pulls on his shirt, then gathers up the rest of his things. Together, they pull the remaining meat, now dried into jerky, from its makeshift rack, and deconstruct the tent.

Sonya watches, perplexed, as Erron lifts a handful of sand and scatters it on the wind. He tilts his head up to the moon and stares at it for a full minute, then sweeps his gaze to the north and south.

“This way,” he says, and starts walking to the northeast.

The stars shine brightly. Erron peers up at them, raising his hand to measure the angle of the constellations and the distance between them. This process seems to inform their navigation somehow, though Sonya can’t fathom why. Every so often, the cowboy bends down to scatter a handful of sand again, staring intently at its movement on the wind. When they come to a shrub, he snaps off a few leaves and crushes them between his fingers, tastes the sap, then spits it out.

The general’s voice slices through his concentration as her confusion finally comes to a head. “Can I ask you what the hell you’re doing?”

His dark-lined eyes peer up at her over his shoulder. He discards the leaves and straightens.

“Finding the cache,” he says plainly, as if the answer is completely self-explanatory.

“Does ‘finding the cache’ mean ‘acting like a fucking lunatic’?”

“It might,” Erron replies, licking a few grains of sand off his thumb. “If by that, you mean tracking down important supplies that might just save your life’. Yeah.”

He walks off without waiting for her, and of course Sonya rushes to catch up. Half a mile out, they crest a rocky hill which pokes up from the softer sand. The promontory is decorated by hardy plants, their leaves tough and shriveled like old leather.

“Mm-hm,” she hears Erron say softly to himself as she comes over the top of the hill. He’s down below on the incline of the opposite side, standing on a slope and kicking aside the sand.

Sonya continues to watch as she makes her way carefully toward the cowboy. Eventually, under the sole of his boot, the dirt gives way to the shape of wooden slats. The pattern itself widens to a square trapdoor, three feet by three feet wide. Erron, with gun in hand, lifts the slats and exposes a shallow cellar beneath.

Inside the dark enclosure lie various odds and ends, packed neatly and seemingly undisturbed since the death of their last owner. The cowboy hops down inside, the box coming up roughly to his mid-thigh, and begins handing out useful materials to Sonya’s waiting hands. First, there’s an old bronze compass, a flint, a knife, and a fine mesh net. Sighting a loop of rope, he throws it onto the ground, where it falls with a thump. When his fingers close on a jug of water, he uncorks it and takes a long drink, one that looks satisfying enough to make Sonya jealous. Then, he hands out an identical, ceramic jug, which she drains with enthusiasm.

Looking around, Sonya crouches down beside the folded mesh Erron gave her earlier. “Is this a mosquito net?” she asks, holding up a length of the thin material.

“Sure is,” he replies. “I don’t recommend spending too much time in the jungle without one.”

He’s bent over, shifting around in the leftover items to see if there might be something worthwhile that he missed. There is a wealth of animal hides, some reptilian, reminding Sonya of crocodile skin, and others covered in exotically patterned fur. A few weapons are also gathered inside, most of them too heavy for two on foot to carry. Erron looks through a bag of gold medallions, squinting at them under the sparse light, and finally throws them back down into the cellar from whence they came.

“That should be about it,” he says, standing upright to take inventory.

Erron covers the cache back up with the wood planks. He and Sonya continue back up the hill. This time, he holds the compass open in one hand, checking it to verify their course. When he and the general crest the hill, the landscape before them seems to have been swallowed by a dark, shapeless wall. Far away at first, its surface seems to roll toward them, gaining speed and size with each fathom it progresses.

Sonya squints at the sweeping winds which whip up the sand at the dark wall’s feet. Mixed realization and dread pound through her all at once. “Is that a -- ?”

“Dust storm,” Erron replies grimly.

A firm hand grasps and turns her shoulder, facing her back down towards the cache.

“Go,” he says forcefully, and she does. The cowboy follows right alongside her, sliding and running by turns in the tricky footing on the hill, and reaches the cellar first. He throws the door open and catches Sonya by her arm as she reaches him. With one smooth motion, he pulls her down inside, then tosses out every item left behind from their pickings.

“You have my bandana?” he asks. “Put it on.”

Sonya does as he says, and Erron throws one of the animal skins around her shoulders.

“Get down.”

He lifts the trapdoor and props it up at an angle with his rifle, against the incline of the hill and the approaching storm. Dropping to his knees, he lets down his poncho to cover his arms and shoulders. The closing wind sounds like a freight train, the particles of sand like a whip, striking every hard surface with a sharp sting. Erron turns Sonya’s head roughly to face the bottom of the cellar and crouches over her, covering her upper body with his.

His free hand holds tight to his poncho, keeping it snug around his body as the storm rolls over. Winds try to tear the fabric from his fingers; specks of dust strike all over his forehead and temples, but fail to penetrate his mask. He pulls his hat down low to protect what he can. Beneath him, Sonya is still and quiet, holding the bandana tightly around her face. With one forearm, Erron pins her head against his chest, where she can’t inhale any of the flying particles.

For what feels like hours, sand pelts him, burning his skin like fire. At last, the pain and the mighty sound of gusting wind begin to fade. The dust drifts like snow to the ground. Erron lets up on Sonya, who lifts her head and stares at him, trying to read his face in what little light she has. Her look is cryptic, especially with the lower half of her head covered.

Erron lays down his rifle and flips the top of the cellar sideways. Mounds of sand rush off of the top of it and back down to the ground. Outside, the landscape looks drastically different. Soft sand covers all of the once-exposed rock. Most of the shrubbery that used to dot the place is long gone, though some of the hardier plants linger. Before putting the top back on the cellar, he rips out a few of the wood planks that form its bottom and breaks them over his knee. Once he replaces the trapdoor, he and Sonya begin to erect the tent right on top of the cache itself. Midway through that process, however, Erron defects and begins to wander through the surrounding area.

When Sonya raises her head, she sees him crouched very nearby, levering open one of his cartridges with a knife. Before him lie a few of the wood planks, and on top of them whatever tinder he was able to scrounge up from the landscape. He pours a tiny amount of gunpowder onto the pile and sparks the flint against his blade. A tiny puff of flame goes up. With hands that look almost loving, he cradles the growing fire in two hands, protecting it until it has eaten enough of the kindling to grow strong. Once the wood has begun to catch fire, Erron gets to his feet.

“Watch that, will you?” he says to Sonya as he picks up his rifle and begins to stride away.

“Where are you going?” she demands, glancing at the fire before she returns her glare to his shrinking back.

 “Hunting.”

 

☼

Erron returns from his trip with a fat snake in his hand. It takes Sonya a while to ascertain that it’s already dead. With capable hands, Erron skins and cleans it, finally spitting the meat on a stick and propping it over the fire.

All the while, Sonya is sitting nearby, squinting suspiciously. When finally the cowboy raises his head, he’s confronted with that steely glare.

“Just how old _are_ you?” she demands.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he replies, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“I’m older than I look.”

“How much older? Like, seventy?”

Sonya means it as a joke, but her traveling partner seems to take the comment very seriously. In response, he just sighs and glances away.

“Look,” Sonya says, “I’ve been to other dimensions, fought some aliens on a magic invisible island, kicked my best friend’s ass after a sorcerer in bondage gear turned him into a zombie…. You’re not gonna surprise me.”

Erron turns his head and makes eye contact with her for a number of furiously intense moments.

“I’m a hundred and sixty eight,” he says finally.

The general only blinks, looking as unfazed as she claimed she would be. “I thought you were human?”

“I am,” he says sparsely. “But I made a deal.” With an expression of slight melancholy, he breaks eye contact.

“With who?” she prompts, but Erron remains silent. He pokes at the fire until it climbs, then checks on the spitted meat. His thumb and fingers come back covered in hot, crackling oil. Erron pops them into his mouth and sucks the grease from his thumb.

“So what you said about Las Vegas…” Sonya trails off.

“Yeah. I was there. Way back when.”

“You’re a real cowboy?”

Her question draws a bitter laugh. “Yeah. The real thing.”

“Here I thought you were just a delusional asshole.”

He looks up and scowls at the insult, looking for a moment very hawklike. “Watch what you say to me, lady.”

Sonya brushes off that warning like corral dust. “You were alive during the _Civil War?_ ”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t have to ask how it was; his expression communicates that easily enough, with his upper lip curled into a snarl at the idea and memory of that interminable, bloody conflict.

Instead, she picks another question. “…When did you leave Earthrealm?”

Erron frowns as the talk begins to feel less like a conversation and more like an interrogation. “1910. Or thereabout.”

“And why don’t you want to come back?”

“It’s easier money out here.”

“I don’t believe that. With places like Somalia and Russia, or, fuck, _Detroit_? You could be making a killing.”

All at once, the gunman goes cold. He glares bullets at her. “Shouldn’t you be grateful that I’m _not_ on Earth, giving your Special Forces one more headache?”

“I’d be grateful if you helped your own realm, like you should be doing, instead of taking money to get us all killed.”

 “I don’t live in Earthrealm anymore,” he says aggressively.

“That’s no excuse for betraying your own people.”

“ _You_ aren’t my people,” he counters, and stands.

“Don’t you have family in Earthrealm?” she challenges, lurching to her feet as well. “Nieces, nephews, grandchildren five times removed, who could have _died_ because you had your head too far up the Kahn’s ass to help your own realm?”

With a steady hand that is a miraculous contrast to the white rage distorting his brow, Erron closes a white-knuckled fist on the grip of his revolver.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been in wars before. Wars that I fought because there are _people_ in Earthrealm who I care about.”

Erron grits his teeth and rumbles his words back to her in a black fury. “Does it occur to you that the people I cared about diedmore than a hundred years ago? It’s a different world now.”

“Don’t blame your age. You’re alone because you chose to be. And you’re too much of a coward to stick your neck out for a cause, so you use other people’s money to put yourself on the winning side.”

With a rush of cold, she hears the click of the hammer cock back.

“Don’t ever insult me like that again,” Erron says, a snake in the grass, deadly quiet. His gun slides an inch or two out of its holster. For a moment, Sonya thinks he might actually shoot her; his hand flexes, like the signal is in the process of streaming from his brain to his trigger finger. But no shot comes. After a long, anxious silence, Erron masters himself. He uncocks the hammer and takes his hand off of the gun, simultaneously defusing some of the tension.

“You should be grateful,” he spits. “If I didn’t want your money so badly, you’d be dead.”

“I doubt it,” she shoots back, unrelenting despite the fact that Erron has backed down. “As for the money,” Sonya pauses and eyes his outfit critically, “you sure as hell don’t look like you use any of it.”

“Mostly don’t,” he replies.

“Why do any of this, then?” she demands, gesturing all around them. “The job, the bounties, _kidnapping_ _my daughter_?”

Erron shrugs off her question before it can reach through the cracks in his emotional armor. He flips a revolver around and around his hand effortlessly, rolls a shoulder as the query glances off of him. “Just for the hell of it.”

Sonya watches him, her tight expression indicating that she remains unconvinced.

“Who was it?” she asks with narrowed eyes. “You said that everyone you cared about was dead.”

“You’ll be dead, too,” he says plainly, “if you don’t stop asking questions like that.” The level voice he uses makes his proclamation seem less like a threat and more like a warning. Sonya recognizes the look of an animal – or a human being – when it’s cornered, and he has it, like he would rip her throat out with his teeth if it meant dodging the question.

She has to ask herself if she’ll ever have him pinned down like this again, and whether it’s worth it to disregard what he’s said and ask a few more questions, trying to pry him open for information. Ultimately, it’s her stomach that decides. After a long, hard trek through the desert on a single serving of military rations, Sonya wants a hot meal, and it would be unwise to piss off the cook any more than she already has.

It’s with nearly shaking hands that he dices up the snake meat. He doesn’t even pass Sonya her portion, just leaves it on the spit and makes her grab it for herself. For all that the mercenary seemed rude and aloof before, she realizes now that it could have been much, _much_ worse.

Now that the sky is a little lighter, she can see the redness of his bare arms after being lashed by the sand, which otherwise would have been striking _her_. He put himself between her and the wild, she realizes, and he continues to do so. Whatever reasons he has, whether she would agree with them or not, are his own, but Erron Black is risking his own life for her, day after day. With another start, she remembers something that she hadn’t considered since the first day they landed out here – that he would probably travel faster alone.

Sonya eats quietly, ruminating and watching him the whole time. For all he shows it, she must not even exist. Never once does he so much as glance her way.

After he finishes bolting his food, Erron reaches into his bag and retrieves a golden harmonica. Its surface flashes proudly in the dawn glow, despite the fact that it’s battered and dented from years of use and travel. He stares at it while it lies in his hands, seemingly indecisive. Then, his gaze roams from the dunes to the dusty sky to the crackling fire as he raises the instrument to his mouth.

Such beautiful music rises from his lungs that Sonya is dumbstruck. Erron plays the gentle rising and falling of a melody that the general finds familiar, but can’t quite put to words or memory. His head is bowed slightly, and his eyes are open, but he’s not using them. They just stare, dark, through his instrument and down into the sand, into nothing. Sonya watches him play, fascinated, and continues to listen until the song finally dies away.

Erron glances at her, seeming to wait for her to say something. Sonya realizes that her mouth is open and closes it; Erron at last returns to playing with a new tune, one that fills her with a sense of melancholy. This time, she is sure that she has never heard it before, and she finds herself leaning in closer to him as the music continues, as if it’s somehow going to reveal itself at any moment.

Now his eyes are closed, and she can study his face without fear of being caught staring. He’s attractive, she realizes distantly, in a rugged sort of way. There is an intensity and a vulnerability about him when he plays that makes her feel like she can see his old soul gleaming in his harmonica. Sonya isn’t a big fan of music – not like Cassie – but the sound that streams through this particular morning feels dreamlike to her.

“What’s that one called?” she asks the musician when he finishes. Silence presses all around them, along with the fading darkness and the last of the grasping cold.

He licks his lips, which are tingling from playing, and remains silent as the question dies around them. “’Young Companions’,” he says finally.

“What are the words?”

Erron scowls at her. “Why don’t you look them up when you get back to Earthrealm?” He shoves the harmonica back into his bag and kicks sand over the fire with the side of his boot, strewing coals and smoldering sticks across the earth. After that, the gunslinger doesn’t even look at her again before he strides over and disappears into the tent.

It strikes Sonya that she hasn’t heard him laugh for a full day.

By the time she gets into the tent, he’s already asleep, or pretending to be. He’s dressed down to his pants and has his hat over his face, as per usual. The general kneels between his sleeping area and hers and says his name, once, quietly.

“Erron.”

He doesn’t stir, though she’s sure he’s heard her. She tries again, more insistently.

“ _Erron Black_.”

His hand moves first, slowly sliding the hat off of his face so he can peer up at her. His eyes, lined in black, are crowded by dark, scowling brows. “What?”

She sighs and swallows her pride, but can’t quite master the stinging note in her voice. “I’m sorry about earlier, all right?”

Erron’s face twitches – whether in the direction of a smile or a grimace, she can’t tell, but it never gets there anyway, just returns to his normal deadpan. The small, subtle muscles in his face shift again in the following moments, and he scowls at her a touch harder for a moment, shrugs, then covers his face again and settles back down to sleep.

“Asshole,” she mutters.


	5. Hard to Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsundere minus the dere.

●

Erron rises in the still, twilight hours. Outside, he can feel the moisture in the air on his skin as they get closer to the jungle. The night isn’t as cold as the one before, more humid, though nowhere near the sticky stagnancy he expects from the rainforest. He stares toward the hills for minutes, rooted to one spot as he feels, smells, tastes the air around him. Calm settles in, for which he is grateful. If there is anything the cowboy hates, it’s being agitated.

Speaking of which, he ducks into the tent and blows an earsplitting whistle, something which has become his standard for waking Sonya. He dodges out again in time to miss the boot and fist she blindly throws his way.

He still hasn’t said a real word to her since the day before, communicating mostly with looks and vague hand gestures. Of all things, he never expected her to apologize, but if anything, that has made him even more uncomfortable and standoffish than he was before. Animosity, he can manage, but kindness is utterly foreign, and it puts him on edge.

Once Sonya rolls outside, they both start in on a cold, but filling breakfast. The fuller his stomach gets, the worse the meat tastes, but Erron swallows it down with the rote methodical procedure of a machine. He has a long swallow of water from his canteen. The liquid feels glorious on his throat, but he’s not looking forward to entering the damper territory of the jungle.

As they move out over the chiseled rocks, groundcover begins to pop up underfoot. Shrubs dot the landscape. Sonya’s fingers reach out as they pass by the plants, bending a twig here, a stem there, laying tiny trail signs down as they go. Erron glances at her, but says nothing. Taking lead, he increases their pace, pushing up the ever so subtle slope of the earth to where the plants grow thicker.

The color green is one he barely recognizes. His eyes are almost surprised to see it, a bright, healthy green, and take a moment to adjust. It’s a small plant, not even as high as his boot. He bends down to look at it on one knee, taking the tiny, almond-shaped leaves between his fingers. They’re soft, tender, and, as he puts one into his mouth, sweet.

Suddenly, his ears prick up, as do the hairs on the back of his neck. A shiver goes through the skin on his arms. There’s something wrong, but he can’t put his finger on what, and as he looks up and back at Sonya to see if she feels it too, his intuition rattles on his right side. At first, he sees nothing but night landscape, shrubbery and rock. But, as it moves just right in the moonlight, he spots the sparking eyes of a mountain cat.

“Sonya!” he shouts suddenly, jumping to his feet.

His gun is out of the holster by the time he rises, but the cougar is already in the air. With his hand at his side instead of guarding his face, Erron takes the full force of the leap. He falls and feels the wind go out of him utterly. His leather vest offers just a tiny degree of protection from the lion’s claws, which is enough. His fingers reach deep into its eye socket and claw out the contents. The animal yowls in pain, opening its mouth to latch needle-sharp teeth onto his throat. Erron tips his head down to protect his neck and shoves his leather gauntlet into the approaching maw.

He can barely afford the millisecond of distraction caused by a quick glance at Sonya. What’s more, the look is in vain; his eyes never find her. Before he can think to wonder why, the cougar reclaims his attention. Its claws come dangerously close to the exposed skin on one side of his face, maybe with the intention of claiming an eye for an eye. With a quick, wrenching motion, Erron flings his legs upward and propels the cat up and over the top of him. He rolls upright and sinks three quick bullets into the creature, his finger perched on the trigger until he sees the thing smoking dead.

His chest heaving, not bothering to assess what wounds he can’t currently feel, he turns on the general with a silent, but accusatory scowl. Her pistol is in her hands, clutched with textbook military posture.

“It’s pitch black,” Sonya spits immediately. “I didn’t want to hit you.”

“Sure,” he says, sour with disbelief. He holsters his gun, fingers clawed once empty. There’s blood all over his right hand, underneath his short fingernails. Puncture marks in the crescent shape of a jaw clench his forearm on either side. His other arm and its respective shoulder are bleeding, a couple square inches of skin hanging freely from the muscle underneath.

Sonya speaks with a little less force once she’s had a proper look at him. “We can argue about this later. Sit down. Who knows what kind of infection you could get from that thing’s claws.”

Erron sits, still full of enough adrenaline to hide the pain from his own nervous system. He is silent, barely even moving, as Sonya pulls off his gauntlet to expose the wounds underneath. They’re lesser where the leather was protecting him, only a quarter-inch deep in the best places. Others are four times as severe.

With a flashlight in one hand, Sonya disembowels the first aid kid and lays the contents across her lap. She does her best to sponge away the blood with gauze before more closely examining the bite marks.

“I think you’ve still got a tooth in here,” she says, tilting his arm to look at the pearly-white fragment gleaming out at her.

The mercenary only grunts in reply.

Sonya is already disinfecting a pair of tweezers. “Brace yourself, Black. This is gonna hurt.”

Suddenly - agonizing, stabbing pain. His teeth feel like they’re going to crack under the force with which he grits them. A muffled sound of discomfort rises from his throat, and then it’s over. He exhales through his nose. Sonya holds up the broken tooth, three-quarters of an inch long and curved.

Erron holds out his good hand to receive it and she drops it into his palm before going back to work. He can see a look of pain cross her face, and briefly wonders what it’s for before he sees her uncap her own water bottle.

“ _No_ ,” he says instantly, so forceful it’s almost a shout.

Sonya pauses in motion, cap in hand, perched to tip the container. “I have to.”

Bereft of words that can express the breadth and depth of his displeasure and disagreement all at the same time, Erron groans in exasperation, gravel rumbling low in his chest.

“You _really_ don’t. I’ll die faster of thirst than I will from an infection.”

“We’re going to be in the jungle in a day. There’s plenty of water.”

“Anything could happen between now and then,” he says. “You don’t even know if we’re a day out. We could be two, or three. That’s the difference between live and dead.”

“When are you going to trust me?” she demands.

“When were you going to shoot the hellcat trying to claw out my throat?”

“I didn’t want to shoot _you_ , idiot.”

“What’s all that Special Forces training for, then? You wear the uniform but you can’t do the shooting?”

Sonya drives a hammerfist into his thigh, a part of him she knows for reasonably certain isn’t injured. “Shut up and let me bandage this.”

Erron glares down at her fingers as they pour a few ounces of water over the wounds. It feels blissfully good for the few seconds that it lasts; he has to admit that much, in spite of the fact that he hates to see such a precious resource pissed away. The antibiotic cream she applies is cool and refreshing. Her capable hands wrap gauze around his arm quickly and efficiently, perfectly spaced, immaculate. None of that matters; he’s still irritated with her.

She pushes his poncho to the side to look at the flap of skin hanging from where the cat scratched him. All at once, she pulls it over his head. When he surfaces on the other side of the fabric, he’s scowling at her.

“Come on,” she says, nudging him in the side. “Vest off. I don’t want to strip you any more than you want me to.”

“That’s not the problem,” he says darkly. What a cruel twist of fate that this is the context in which Sonya Blade ends up taking off his clothes.

With one hand, he undoes the belt for his holster, then the one under it. His bandoliers drop in one big pile of cartridges. The buckles on the sides of his body give him trouble, but he persists. He shrugs out of the strap for his rifle and, at last, crooks his fingers at Sonya.

“C’mere. Help me with this.”

Together, they pull the leather armor over his head. Erron drags his weathered black shirt off with it.

Sonya looks at the scars on his arms and shoulders in all their pain and glory. She’s busy cleaning the scratches from the cougar, but she can’t help it if her eyes wander to the tally marks all over his upper torso, some grisly count for a quantity of something she can’t imagine. The crossed circles on his deltoids look like something a gang member would have. She resists the urge to touch them.

“What are all those from?” she finally asks, looking up briefly to meet his eyes before she starts dabbing antiseptic on the scratches down his chest.

“Depends which ones you’re asking about.”

“The tally marks.”

“I don’t always have a pen and paper handy,” he teases, dodging the question.

The disappointing answer prompts Sonya to look up at him, her gaze expectant. “No, really,” she says flatly, her eyebrows just as level in a glare across her forehead.

Erron actually rolls his eyes at her. “Keeps track of how old I am.”

Sonya’s head tips sideways. She’s not sure if she believes him. “Really?”

“Wanna count ‘em?” he challenges. She recognizes a flirtation in his voice, subtle as it is. For her, it’s actually something of a relief to hear it again.

“I’ll take your word for it,” the general replies. She presses an adhesive gauze bandage over the worst of the wounds, trying her best not to touch his skin, which is warm and smooth.

“Why’d you do it?” she asks as she checks over his injuries one more time.

His eyes are like ash - grey, bland, and distant - as he answers. “I was bored.”

Setting the mystery of Erron Black aside, Sonya zips up the first aid kit and stands. “All right, Brokeback, put your shirt back on.”

“What did you just call me?” he demands in a flat, accusatory tone.

Sonya flaps a dismissive hand at him as he dresses. “It’s just a movie. Don’t worry about it.”

He does worry about it as he stands and picks up his things. Though he reaches to take up the tent and the pack of other supplies, Sonya gets there first and lifts the strap onto her back. While Erron is normally protective of the supplies, he’s less inclined to be a gentleman with a fresh wound carved into him. There is a short pause, each looking at the other, as he lets her take it. Then they break and begin to walk upward again.

☼

By the time dawn begins to peek over the horizon, they’re still walking.

Erron pauses to wipe sweat from his forehead, squinting into the mounting light. “If we push through today, we can hit the edge of the jungle by tonight.  Then we can enter under cover of darkness tomorrow morning.”

It’s not too hot during the day anymore without the beating sun of the desert above them.

Sonya nods. “We’re gonna travel by day in the jungle?”

“It’s not as hot, and we stand less a chance of being spotted than in the open badlands. Besides, it’s too dangerous to travel through the jungle at night. There’s no way we’ll be able to see anything.”

“Yeah, I can make it through today. If we find some food and water. Daytime, there’s a bigger chance we’re gonna dehydrate.”

“There’s green growth around here. That means there must be water.”

With that, the two begin trudging for another fifteen minutes. When they crest a rocky hill, a shallow gulch opens up beneath them. Fresh rainfall seems to have created an incidental stream below. There’s only a gentle trickle of water, just the width and depth of a finger, but it’s enough. They crouch down, letting it run into their hands and splashing it on their heads and faces to cool off.

Together, they split up and drink their existing water, then refill their containers from the stream. As part of the impromptu rest break, Erron peels off his bandages, with Sonya’s help, and checks his wounds. A small amount of dried blood is crusted on the inside of the wraps, but the skin surrounding the injury is a healthy, healing pink. Sonya washes the gauze in the stream water and wrings it dry. Then she retrieves a fresh length of bandage and begins to slather the wound in antibiotic cream.

Erron clears his throat. “Wanna kiss it better?” he rumbles. He’s making eyes at her hard from where he sits on the warm, rust-colored stone.

Sonya meets his gaze squarely, her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Wanna kiss my ass?”

Erron smiles. “Ha. You’re somethin’ else, General.”

As she bandages up his wounds, Sonya makes no effort to be gentle, eliciting a few hisses from the cowboy at the stinging of her rough touch.

“I meant it as a compliment,” he offers, rubbing his arm.

“Save it for someone who cares,” she shoots back.

Erron pulls off his poncho, vest, and shirt so she can get at the injuries on his chest and shoulder. He gives her a grin, sitting there with his tanned body and chiseled abs. His charms have the opposite effect on Sonya, who grudgingly leans forward and starts to unwrap the other dressings.

“Have you dated at all since you broke it off with Cage?” he inquires, craning his neck to look at her.

Midway through her work, the general looks up, a black scowl etched across her brow. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“So, no, then,” he says with a smirk.

“Why does it matter to you?”

“We’ve been out in the wilderness together for four whole days, and I barely know you.”

“Why not start off with where I grew up, where I went to school, my favorite color?” she asks, returning her attention to cleaning his wound.

“I didn’t figure you for small talk, but all right. Where did you grow up?”

Sonya rolls her eyes. “I’m from Glen Falls, New York. I went to school at Glens Falls High, and my favorite color is fuchsia.”

“Your favorite color is pink?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” he says with a slow smile. “Maybe there really is a lady underneath that uniform.”

Sonya snorts and ties off his bandage. “I wouldn’t look too hard.”

Erron leans forward as she replaces the first aid supplies.

“You do anything in your free time, or is it just huntin’ down deadbeats and defending the realm ‘round the clock?”

It actually seems to take her some time to consider the question. She rests her arm on her knee and sighs up at the sky. “I like to swim.”

“That’s it?”

“I spend a lot of time at the firing range. I like to run.”

Erron shakes his head. “That’s all part of your job. I mean, what do you do for fun?”

“That is fun,” she snaps back automatically. Then, after a second spent staring down at the ground, she adds, “I like to play a game of pool, once in a while. And I watch baseball.”

“That’s more like it,” he comments, smiling. “Sounds like you’re kind of a bar gal.”

At that, she bristles. “Are you insinuating something?”

“No,” he says with genuine alarm, raising his brows. “My mother was a…” he trails off, his mouth closing as he studies Sonya’s face.

“A what?” she prompts.

“… I don’t think you know … what a saloon girl is.” Erron notes the vacancy in Sonya’s eyes, then continues to explain. “When I was a kid, saloons would hire ladies to hang out and attract men. In those days, it was maybe five men to each woman in town, if you were lucky. So these desperate miners and cowpunchers would go in lookin’ for female companionship, and the girls would keep ‘em entertained with cards or drinks or what-have-you.”

“Like a hostess bar,” Sonya says.

“Yeah, I guess,” he rumbles. “Same basic concept. It was the kind of thing that polite society looked down on. But that was the best thing about back then. It didn’t matter.” Erron hangs his head and starts tracing the lines on his palm with his thumb. “… I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“You wanted to get to know each other,” she offers.

“Yeah,” he says, rising and shouldering their supplies. “Stupid idea.”

Sonya falls into step beside them as they terminate their rest break and continue walking.

“So, what’s your favorite color?” she asks, feeling the tiniest twinge of guilt at Erron’s mood.

He glances back at her over his shoulder, and his expression softens slightly. “Brown,” he replies. After a moment’s thought, he adds, “Or dirty red.”

For a few seconds, the only sound is the crunching of the earth beneath their boots. Then Erron speaks up again, his voice back to its normal coolness. “If you ever get done saving the world, I’d be happy to join you for a rack of pool.”

“You as good a shot with a cue as you are with a gun?”

“Not even close,” he replies with a soft laugh. “But I’m better than most.”

There’s a short pause. Then, more seriously, a straight-faced Sonya says, “I don’t think I can take you up on that.”

“Why not?” he asks, to no reply.

For minutes, the only sounds that fill the air are the thudding of stones and dirt beneath their feet. Finally, Erron turns to look at her while they continue to walk.

“I’m just asking for an evening,” he says in a voice calculated to charm. “Or even an afternoon. What harm could it be?”

“One thing leads to another,” Sonya answers. Her tone is brief and irate, and she scowls into the distance as they continue trudging.

“Only if you want it to.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a headstrong lady. You can handle yourself.”

“I don’t trust you,” she finally says.

It’s not an answer that Erron can argue with on principle - he’s not a trustworthy person – but, for some reason, he doubts that her excuse is all there is to it. With earth crunching as he pivots, the cowboy stops in front of her, temporarily blocking her path forward. His hair is colored yellow by the daylight over his shoulder. His eyes are a soft brown, like milk chocolate or supple leather, but they look as intransigent as rock.

“Are you sure it’s me you don’t trust?” he asks, his voice low and lilting. The question is still a solid one all the same, standing out there in front of her like an obstacle she has to get past, like Erron himself.

Sonya bumps shoulders with and pushes her way past him. He turns easily to let her go, having received all the answer he needs from her silence.


	6. Hunger for What You See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fella can, and does, hope.

●

Only when evening falls and the light fades do they finally sleep. Both are exhausted, and barely have the energy to look at each other while they chew their dinner. Erron, in a fit of chivalry and masculine pride, takes the first watch. The look of euphoria that he sees on Sonya’s face as she slumps into the tent is the happiest expression he’s ever seen on her.

During the first few night hours, sounds like vocalizations ring at him through the landscape, along with the shuffling of feet. The noises are so quiet and so vague that it’s impossible to tell whether the culprit is man or beast. Rather than leave the camp unattended and vulnerable to assault, Erron refrains from searching for the source of the noise. The disruption dies off during the later portion of his watch, but he is paranoid enough to tell Sonya, when he wakes her, of what he heard.

Sleep is ecstasy after more than 24 hours awake, and it comes to him easily despite his misgivings about the noise around the camp. His dreams, however, are punctuated by gunshots, which blow through his ears and are absorbed by his subconscious mind. At last, with a start, he becomes aware that the sounds are real, that they’re emanating from outside the tent.

Two revolvers jump instantly into his hands, as if pulled by a super-magnet. He rushes outside and sees blonde hair in the scant light. Steadying his hand, he aims and fires at a bald, fleshy figure mere feet away from her, spotting movement more than features. As it falls to the ground and he spies two nearly identical corpses splayed across the ground nearby, his mind registers that they were Tarkatans.

Sonya lets her shooting arm fall to her side. Her other hand is pressed to the flat area above her right breast, below her collarbone. Erron keeps one revolver out, but shoves the other into its holster.

“Are you hurt?” he asks immediately, with real urgency. His free hand hovers near her waist, ready to catch her or steady her if she sways.

Sonya lifts a red palm from the wound and studies it. Catching sight of the blood, Erron ducks into the tent and whips his poncho onto the ground outside, setting the first aid kit on top of it. Without a word, he seizes hold of the soldier and guides her to a seat. While Sonya offers little physical protest, she does object with words.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just tired.”

“You’re bleeding,” Erron says.

“Not a lot,” Sonya answers back, looking down at herself. Now, Erron can better see the viscous shimmer of blood on her clothes, along with accompanying rips and tears in the fabric. “Most of this isn’t mine.”

“Let’s find out what is,” he says, dragging her jacket aside to expose her shoulder. There’s a clear hole through the shirt she wears beneath, down to a bloody puncture wound in the muscle below her collarbone.

Sonya protests, “I can do that myself.”

 “Quiet,” is his only reply. He pulls off the general’s jacket with her minimal assistance, then tugs the sleeve of her shirt down to fully expose her wound. His eyes study it critically. With the pad of a thumb, he presses on the skin around the injury. Sonya winces.

“Stabs from a Tarkatan can get nasty,” he says after a moment.

“You’re telling _me_ ,” she says with a touch of irony, remembering in particular that Erron sometimes uses a Tarkatan’s arm blade as a sword. Sonya raises her head, trying to gauge his thoughts through his expressions, but Erron maintains an ironclad poker face. “… What are you gonna do?”

Erron’s indifference transforms into a look of deep pain. Sonya is nervous for as long as it takes him to reach down and grasp something – she hopes it isn’t his gun.

To her incredible shock, he uncaps his own water bottle and pours a steady stream of its contents over her shoulder. The general starts to move, surprised by what the mercenary is doing. A strong, blunt-fingered hand holds her in place.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice made harder by surprise.

Erron pauses and glares down at her. “Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?”

“I thought first aid was a waste of water,” Sonya recalls with heavy sarcasm.

He only looks at her for a few long moments, blinking. “… Well, you convinced me otherwise,” Black replies sparsely, setting his canteen aside. From the absolute mortification spelled across face, though, he doesn’t seem entirely convinced.

Sonya grits her teeth while he wipes the better part of her blood away. Erron swabs the clean wound with antiseptic, then returns the same, grave stare to her.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

Her reaction is automatic. She sits up and scowls. “No.”

Erron sighs. “You’re gonna catch something if you leave that wound open long. Especially where we’re headed.”

“So what are you gonna do?” she asks, relaxing slightly into a more reclined position.

“Stitch you up,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Don’t,” he adds, raising a hand as she starts to open her mouth, “start jawin’ at me. I’ve done this a hundred times before.”

Erron threads a surgical needle with precise, methodical hands.

“Would you have let me do this to you?” she demands.

“Sure,” he says softly, not looking up. “You should be good at it.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re a woman,” the cowboy says frankly, and meets her eyes.

For all that she’s injured, the uppercut that Sonya gives him leaves Erron seeing stars. He claps a hand to his jaw, then spits a chip of tooth.

“Fuck you,” the general says.

Erron clenches his jaw and glares at her. His tone, like his gaze, is dangerous, pushed into the red.

“If you hit me one more time, I’m liable to lose my temper.”

“And I’ll kick your ass all the way back to the 1800’s,” Sonya spits in reply. “Where your attitude belongs.”

The cowboy says nothing in response, but there seems to be a vague spark of pleasure in his face as he pushes the needle through her skin, like a stroke of vengeance. Sonya bears the pain easily. After having a kid, a little poke is nothing.

Erron ties off the first stitch, cuts the thread, and continues on closing the wound. At last, he takes up the first aid kit again. There’s a long, awkward pause as he contemplates Sonya’s clothes, and how he’s going to wrap the injury in spite of them.

Sonya is actually the one who breaks the standoff. She pulls off her shirt and looks at him, wondering if he’ll ogle her sports bra. While his gaze does linger on her, it’s more because of dumbstruck surprise than lust.

“Hurry up,” she snaps impatiently, waking him from his shock.

Saying nothing, Erron peels the backing paper off an adhesive gauze pad and smooths it to her skin. While he’s at it, he cleans the smaller cuts that litter her body, none requiring more than a swab and a Band-Aid to keep out the dirt.

Once he’s finished, he helps Sonya pull her shirt back on properly, without disturbing her bandage.

“You enjoy that?” Sonya asks as she surfaces on the other side of her clothes.

Erron, grinning slightly at the question, shrugs. “Not really.”

The look Sonya gives him is unconvinced. She tips her head to the side, brows raised, and props herself up on two hands. “After all that flirting, that’s what it comes down to? ‘Not really’?”

“Why?” Erron challenges. Now she can really see his smile, particularly at the weathered corners of his eyes. “You offended?”

Sonya glares and Erron sighs.

“In any other situation, General,” he says, hitting her with the full brunt of his molasses-smooth voice, “I’d be happy as a clam at high water.” His gaze hovers for a moment before he leans back and starts putting away the supplies. “But there’s just somethin’ about a bloody stab wound that doesn’t turn me on.”

Sonya snorts. “How sweet.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Erron replies.

The sky is still dark; it’s long before dawn. The mercenary helps Sonya to her feet and wraps her in his poncho in lieu of her jacket. She lets him lead her inside. With her head laid down on her rolled-up jacket, she watches as he pulls on his bandolier and loads his gun.

“Get some sleep,” he says, rolling the cylinder with a tumult of metallic clicks. “I’m going out.”

He shoulders through the tent flap and leaves Sonya alone to consider him. While she’s reluctant to take his charity and his supposed chivalry, she can’t argue with the benefits they are netting her. Sleep comes easily, but the last thing on her mind before she dips below consciousness is the unfathomable face of Erron Black.

 

Erron wakes her with the same earsplitting whistle as always. To her pleasure, however, he arrives with fresh water, which she can identify only by its sound in the darkness of the wee hours.

“I already scouted the path,” he says as she bolts breakfast. “It should be clear for now.”

Sonya rolls up and out, onto her knees.

“How’s the arm?” he inquires.

“I told you it was nothing,” she replies with no small amount of sass, rolling her shoulder.

“It’s only nothing ‘cause I fixed it,” comes his quiet reply as he begins to dismantle their camp.

The foothills are the hardest to navigate in the dark. Erron goes first, picking his way carefully, but surprisingly fast, as if he’s walked the trail before. Sonya sticks as close behind him as she can, watching his feet and matching his steps precisely. The greenery thickens as they go up, and the dirt becomes mud. The flora changes, becoming darker and larger, the leaves shiny and sleek with water.

At first, the light is patchy, then it disappears altogether, as the forest canopy blocks out all light from moon and stars, leaving them in darkness. Though she’s reluctant to tip off any other parties to their whereabouts, Sonya flicks on her flashlight, making Erron jump and whirl in surprise. The mercenary gives her a short, cryptic look, difficult to read with only a small part of his face showing. Then, wordless, he takes the light from her hand and leads the way.

Erron picks his way through with patience and caution. They prioritize stillness and silence, causing very little movement in the environment around them. Though he doesn’t tell her as much, there are more interfering parties to worry about than humans and Tarkatans. Erron is also trying to avoid the notice of the local wildlife. His eyes dart around furiously as he scans the jungle, but there’s a slim chance he’ll be able to spot a predator until it’s ready to strike – or already has.

As the scenery streams by, he recognizes poisons, foods, and utilities among the jungle flora. The entire surrounding is lush with life and diversity, so unlike the desert, which was teeming only with sand and the beating sun. Despite its barrenness, Erron would feel more comfortable with the latter.

A leech viper, long and thick, slithers around a tree. It takes him a while to recognize the animal for what it is, rather than part of the plant life itself. When he does, however, Erron holds out an arm and pushes Sonya behind him, keeping himself between her and the snake. It shouldn’t attack them - it looks like it’s already digesting a kill, and they don’t pose much danger to it from such a distance away – but they are so close now to their goal that Erron feels _something_ is about to go terribly wrong.

☼

Light begins to filter through the canopy as the day wears on. Erron is able to switch off the flashlight, which he passes back to the general. He feels better, being able to see, at least.

As the sun mounts and the forest becomes unbearably humid, he and Sonya continue their trudging. Their legs are weary; the muscles in their calves and thighs are beyond aching. Part of the problem is the uneven footing of the jungle - the leaves and vines and stones that must be navigated around - but there is also the element of the wet ground jealously sucking at their shoes or threatening to send them into a face-plant.

Sonya is tired of smelling like bug repellant. She had assumed that she would get used to the odor, but now she realizes that, when the scent starts to dissipate every few hours, it only signals time to apply more of the lotion. For some reason, the bugs seem to find her far more delicious than Erron, who she hasn’t at any point seen put any of the product on his skin.

She has all day to ruminate upon it, glaring at his back as he continues to trudge through the jungle, unhampered by insects.

“How are you doing that?” she finally demands.

“Doing what?” he inquires back over his shoulder, briefly taking his eyes, but not his feet, from the path ahead.

“Keeping the bugs off of you,” she replies.

“Mm.” He pauses for a moment in his speech, seeming to take a while to formulate his thought, which to her is a glaring sign of an oncoming lie. “I eat something that makes my blood taste bitter to them.”

“You can’t be serious,” she says, but it’s more of a question.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am. You can get it in the market in Z’unkahrah – some kind of root vegetable. Bugs hate it.”

“I’ll have to find some of that for the soldiers,” Sonya says thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” Erron says, carefully pushing aside a clump of vines and holding it aloft like a curtain for Sonya to go through. “Looking for that much of it, if the Kahn wises up - that’s gonna tip him off immediately that you’re planning to come in from the jungle. I’d say stick to your Earthrealm grease and endure being oily for a few days.”

“Come on,” Sonya says, glaring at him as she passes. “You must have some smuggler friend who can get his hands on enough of it for at least some of our men.”

She can feel just a ghost of his clothing brush up against her as he slips past to lead the way again.

“Sure I do,” he says. “I just don’t feel like calling in my short supply of favors for the comfort of an army that I don’t even _like_.”

Sonya scowls in response and responds with unbridled sarcasm. “You’re a real team player, aren’t you, Black?”

“Depends on the team,” he answers over his shoulder. “I’m playing nice enough with you, aren’t I?”

Sonya just utters an unintelligible, beleaguered grumble and, afterward, stays quiet.

Soon, the sound of running water begins to catch on the edge of the general’s hearing. At first, the musical sound might be a trick of the wind, but soon, she can hear the stronger noise of a river rushing over rocks. She doesn’t need to ask Erron whether or not he’s headed there; in the next fifteen minutes, they break through the trees into a gulch through which the river runs. The walls below them are slick, steep, and muddy. Erron is careful to watch his footing as he looks around, checking for predators that might also be having a dip in the stream.

Beside him, Sonya sighs loudly. When he turns and glances over his shoulder, he catches a glimpse of a mournful expression before her countenance returns to normal.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Sonya says, but when Erron continues to stare at her, she sighs again. “I just wish I could take a bath. I feel disgusting.”

From her tone, Erron surmises that she already knows about the dangers of swimming in jungle water. There’s a brief silence as he considers making a suggestive comment, then decides against it. It’s too easy.

“There’s plenty of water,” he says. “We’ll figure it out when we make camp.”

They slide down through the muddy crossing, getting covered in even more filth in the process. Not only Erron’s clothes, but Sonya’s as well, are almost completely brown with dirty water. At the very least, though, neither one of them is thirsty. When craving a drink, all they need do is tip down one of the trees’ large, spoon-like leaves and let the collected water run down into their mouths. After the desert, it seems almost magical.

●

The two only stop their trek when the light becomes too sparse for safe travel. Sonya, while she never uttered a word of complaint during the day, is grateful for the respite.

Erron shifts on his feet and looks around. He swings the tent around on its strap from over his shoulder into his hands, and begins to open the closures that keep it folded.

“We can’t sleep on the ground.”

Sonya, knowing what she’s seen underfoot throughout the day, and contemplating with horror all of the things she she _can’t_ see, is forced to agree. However, there’s a tentativeness about Erron’s expression and the way he handles the tent that makes her narrow her eyes in suspicion.

“So, where are we going to sleep?” she asks cautiously.

Erron smiles grimly, holding the unraveled tent by one side while the rest trails on the ground. “Glad you asked.” With an abrupt, jerking motion that makes the muscles in his arms bulge, he rips the tent apart at its seams.

Sonya gasps and steps forward instantly with arms outreached, though she never puts a hand on Erron. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Hammock,” he answers simply. “You’ll see.”

Within minutes, the tent is reduced to a flat, shapeless length of material. Erron doubles it up and ties it at four corners, then secures it to a few trees which are more or less evenly spaced. Sonya helps him stretch rope between the trees, parallel to the hammock’s anchor points. They drape the mosquito net over it, creating a hanging, gossamer canopy over their sleeping area.

Stepping back with her hands on her hips, Sonya takes stock of the arrangement, then looks over at Erron, finally narrowing her eyes.

“There’s only one,” she says.

Erron only shrugs, looking irritatingly unconcerned. “Sorry.”

The general feels a sort of bubbling rage beginning to well up inside of her, or perhaps it’s closer to indignation. Whatever it is, though, she doesn’t let the feeling rule her, and tries to master it as well as possible. Once again, she’s forced to come to terms with the fact that Erron is keeping her alive, and she should do her best to avoid giving him reasons not to.

With flared nostrils, she raises a single accusatory finger to chastise him. “You’d better keep your shirt on,” she warns.

Erron laughs. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I wouldn’t wanna tempt you too badly.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

A slow, easy smile draws up the mask at his cheeks. “You’d be offended if I didn’t.”

There’s a brief standoff as they stare at each other for a moment. Sonya gives up on the argument and shakes her head silently; Erron breaks aside and begins the process of starting a fire. While it’s more difficult in the damp environment, Sonya has never seen anyone build a fire as easily as the bounty hunter does it.

Once the flames are crackling, Erron sets his open canteen over the coals and lets the water inside heat to a low boil. He does the same with the ceramic jug they carried over from the cache. Sonya busies herself by gathering various edible fruits and plants, some that Black has shown her and others that she recognizes from her own survival training.

With everything set for dinner, the cowboy stands and begins to circle around their camp, looking up. Whatever it is that he’s looking for, he seems very intent upon it. Exasperated, Sonya doesn’t even bother asking what he’s doing – that is, until she hears a gunshot and a hefty thud. She comes jogging up to Erron, who is picking up a fruit which looks rather like an Earthrealm coconut. It’s roughly the size of his head. When he shakes it beside his ear, even she can hear the sloshing of water.

Turning, he tosses it to her. As she catches it, Sonya feels the weight of the liquid within.

“That’s a shower,” Erron says simply, and raises his head again. His shooting arm rises a moment later, and down falls another nut. Several more follow in quick succession. Sonya helps to hold them until Black gathers everything up and walks back to their immediate campground.

The water is busily boiling. Erron carefully moves the containers off of the fire before returning his attention to Sonya. Taking one of the nuts, he makes a niche in its shell to steady the point of his knife, then violently punches the blade straight through.

Now Sonya sees what he meant by calling it “a shower”. When he turns it upside down to demonstrate, water trickles out of the small slit in the nut’s shell.

As she watches, Erron pops open every single one for her, sometimes accompanied by a violent spray of pressurized water. When he finishes, they’re all lined up in a row on the ground, punctured side up.

“Don’t go off too far,” he advises, “and take your gun with you.”

While Sonya is tempted to give the know-it-all a piece of her mind, she decides against it and gathers up the fruits in both arms.

The sound of harmonica music drifts through the jungle toward her as she walks back, her long, damp hair swinging loose of its braid. When she returns, Erron is lazing in the hammock, his boots tied together and hung upside-down from a nearby tree branch. He cuts off the song he’s playing to look at her, and smirks.

“You clean up nice.”

Sonya reaches up to touch her face. She can actually feel her skin now, instead of the layer of grime and dirt that had been coating it. Her cheeks are pink and pretty in the heat.

“Thanks,” she says with sarcasm, and sinks to her knees beside the smoldering coals of their fire, where the leftover food and drinking water waits for her. She pulls her hair over her shoulder and hastily begins to braid it, a difficult process when done alone.

Warm, calloused hands settle on hers, pulling them aside. She stifles a gasp and turns around to look at Erron, who is expertly separating her hair into four strands.

“I can’t stand to watch you try to do this yourself,” he says by way of explanation, meeting her eyes.

“You know how to braid hair?” she asks skeptically.

His response is a lopsided grin. “I know how to plait rope.”

Though somewhat unconvinced, Sonya returns to her food. She can feel Erron working his way down her mane of hair as she eats, and is surprised at his speed and gentleness. Before she’s even finished, he nudges her elbow.

“Got anything to tie this with?”

Sonya passes an elastic band over her shoulder, and Erron ties off the braid. Eager to see (and criticize) the results, she pulls her hair to the front to look at it. What she sees silences her. It’s a beautiful four-ply braid, neater and tighter than anything she could do herself. Trying to hide her shock, she glances at the cowboy over her shoulder. By his smug expression, he’s seen right through her guise.

“You’re welcome, darlin’.” His voice is warm with self-satisfaction. He turns and walks back to the hammock. Moments later, she hears him slump down inside of it.

By the time she’s hung up her own boots and peeled off her jacket, Erron looks to be dozing. But the moment Sonya begins to clamber in, his eyes snap right open.

“Move over,” she orders once she sees him awake, accompanying her words with a soft smack on his upper arm.

While Erron does shift aside, by the very nature of hammocks, gravity brings them closer together than she would prefer. It’s all she can do not to flop over onto him, with the fabric shifting beneath her every time she moves.

Erron laughs. The worst thing about it is how _relaxed_ he looks, lounging around like he’s on vacation.

At last, the general settles herself into a vastly uncomfortable position with the smallest possible amount of contact between her body and Erron’s. Sonya’s side is pressed up against Erron’s arm, pinning it down. The cowboy looks over at her silently before he tugs it out from between them. Against her will, Sonya rolls, more of her side pressed against his, her head landing on his chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she demands, battling the hammock in an attempt to sit upright.

“I need this for shooting,” Erron says softly. He brandishes a gun in the hand he just freed, now armed with both revolvers. “Calm down, General. I won’t get up to any mischief while you’re sleeping.”

Once again, he’s grinning, and looks to be stifling another laugh.

Sonya glares at him at full force for what feels like minutes. If she scowled any harder, lasers like Kano’s would shoot out of her eyes and scorch her partner to a crisp. Eventually, she is forced to relent, and lies down again. At least there are three layers between her face and Erron’s chest – his shirt, his vest, and his poncho. Though it’s dirty and scratchy, the wool is still soft, and a far more comfortable pillow than she’s had in almost a week.

“I’ll keep watch,” he says, squinting through the netting at the jungle around them. He has to resist the urge to stroke her hair, which seems the natural thing to do at this juncture. “You get some rest.”

“I doubt it,” Sonya spits back, turning slightly to adjust the placement of her head on her human pillow.

The fact that she can hear his heartbeat is awkwardly intimate, but Erron’s pulse keeps excellent time to lull her to sleep. Between the heat and the humidity of the area, she finds herself dozing off within minutes in spite of her cynical prediction.

Once her breathing steadies, Erron looks down at her. Her face is freshly scrubbed and actually tranquil for once, her mouth shut instead of snarling at him. Studying it, he tries to master the feeling of … whatever it is that goes rattling through him. The weight of her head is comfortable on his chest, as is the weight of a revolver in each hand. Though he and Sonya are alone in the jungle and facing death on all sides, he feels deeply at home. The quiet movement and noise of the forest are enough to keep him awake, and his eyes and senses stay alert, but his mind wanders. He has always been more at ease under pressure and danger than in a safe, peaceful city.

Perhaps half an hour in, Sonya begins to squirm and struggle against his side. Her fingers claw at the leather armor on his chest, and she murmurs words that are unintelligible, but sound distressed. It’s the same routine as every night with her, and he would otherwise ignore it, except that now she’s having her typical nightmares while pressed against his body. Utterly uncertain of what to do, Erron simply stares down at her until she quiets. His hand hovers tentatively over her shoulder, ready to gentle her back to sleep, but it never touches down on her skin.

Otherwise, the hours pass by easily. If he had the chance, he’d actually wish for more of them. He has precious little time to be quiet in Z’unkahrah, with so much going on in the city, especially these days. Killing, to Erron, is second nature, but living like this, surviving off of the land and his wits alone, is what he was born to do.

“Sonya,” he says at last, turning his head to speak right next to her ear. “Wake up, General.”

From so close, his voice is still not loud enough to drill through her heavy sleep. He puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles. The general’s eyes twitch, then slowly open. She looks up at Erron and freezes for a second to see him so near. Erron, coming to a simultaneous realization, muses that he can smell her, shrouded in the scent of sweet water.

“Your turn to watch,” he says, peering at her.

There’s a long pause as the general continues to stare at him. From her expression, she didn’t comprehend, or maybe even hear, a word he just said.

“…Yeah,” Sonya finally declares, coming out of whatever trance she was drifting in. She rubs her eyes with one hand, then her cheeks. “Sorry – I guess I’m still fuzzy.”

Erron just gives a quiet laugh. “I didn’t realize you were so comfortable.”

Sonya suppresses a yawn and shifts to sit up a little more. “We’ve been walking for a full day. I was tired.”

“And how do you feel now? Up for a watch?”

“Yeah,” she replies, stifling another yawn. “I got it.”

“Well,” he says, holstering his guns with some difficulty. “Goodnight, then, sweetheart.”

Just as Erron closes his eyes, he finds himself rudely disturbed by Sonya, who shoves his arm down against his side and assumes the position she had earlier, touching Erron as little as possible.

At his affronted look, it’s her turn to smile. “You didn’t really think I was gonna let you get away with that the whole night, did you?”

“A fella can hope,” the cowboy replies softly, then goes to sleep with irritating ease.


	7. You're Gonna Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 167 years should be long enough.

☼

As they clean up their camp in the morning, Erron is in a fantastic mood. This drains out of him, though, when he hears a distinct rustling in the jungle around them. It’s too purposeful to be harmless, too loud to be an animal, and it comes in a wide semicircle around them.

He puts his hand on Sonya’s arm. She looks at him with open eyes. Erron grabs his hat and settles it onto his head and slings his rifle over his back. The two nod at each other in confirmation, then turn and run in the same direction, away from the noises in the brush.

The sounds of pursuit intensify behind them now that they’ve broken the tension. Neither dare to look behind, just press forward through the jungle. Sonya is stuck to his side, following his every movement almost before he makes it. Erron feels a sudden, iron determination not to let her down.

His only advantage is how well he knows the location. Mud slides under their feet, roots and vines trip them. Erron takes up a pattern that uses the jungle’s hazards and its mazelike nature to their advantage, winding serpentine through the obstacles. He clasps his hand to Sonya’s arm to keep her next to him through his evasive maneuvers.

It seems that he isn’t the only one not going in a straight line. An Outworlder in rough garb jumps out in front of them, a knife in each hand. Erron shoots the man in one shoulder, making him crumple, but not fall. Sonya does a handspring onto the man’s shoulders, forcing him to the ground and catapulting over him without losing speed or momentum. Erron  catches her up as she continues to run and pulls her into the direction of the deeper forest.

Trees and plants brush them on all sides, grabbing at their clothes. They don’t have the luxury of worrying about the jungle’s hazards now, only the one following immediately behind them.

Erron fires a few blind shots over his shoulder. From the yells that come behind them, his bullets find targets, or at least cause them a scare.

The two come to a muddy hill. Erron grabs Sonya in his arms and slides, skidding all the way down and resuming at a run. They push to the right and meet a tangle of vines. The wall looks solid, filling Sonya with despair. It doesn’t look like they’ll be able to get through, but Erron disappears to the other side, and his hand materializes to tug her in after him

She gasps, then goes quiet except for the rapid rushes of her breath. They stand in a long stone hall, with damp grey slabs above and below them, as well as to their backs and fronts. A wet dripping echoes through the tunnel, somewhere in the darkness to one side where her vision can’t penetrate. The noises of pursuit are still around them, but quieter, and ranging in circles as if they’ve temporarily lost the trail.

Erron reaches for his knife, but realizes that he’s left it at the camp. His teeth sink into his lower lip and his eyebrows fall. Taking Sonya by the hand, he tugs her into the darkness. He leads with a revolver in his free hand. It becomes more and more difficult to see.

He sets his foot on something long and cylindrical and hears a hiss. Too late, he tries to backpedal, bowling Sonya over. On the ground, he puts up an arm to protect his face. It does the job, but two fangs sink instead into the flesh of his forearm. Growling in anger, Erron seizes hold of the snake and rips it in half out of pure spite.

Sonya extricates herself from under him.

“I hope that wasn’t poisonous,” she says quietly, wary that there might still be hunters around them.

“There’s not much in Outworld that isn’t,” he replies, and his voice is grave.

Erron gets to his feet, pushing forward despite the pain thundering through his arm. “We’ve gotta go. I’ll worry about it later.”

Not wanting to alert their pursuers, Sonya doesn’t bother to argue. She just grabs a trailing fold of his poncho and follows close behind him. They wind down the passage for what seems like minutes.

“Stairs,” he says gruffly. “Watch out.”

They descend at least a story, then go straight again. Erron, feeling the way in front of him with one hand, finds a slab of stone and puts his weight behind it. The slab shifts, filling the room with a soft, reverberating grinding.

Soft light shines in from the other side. They step through into a small, square room. A podium stands in the center. A depression inside of the pedestal has tracks that lead out and trail down to the floor, forming a wide circle around the room. Above them, wide-leafed plants block out wide swathes of sun, casting shade below.

Erron turns to face Sonya. Now that she can see him properly, the tension in his eyes isn’t comforting. Without asking permission, she puts her fingers on his neck and grips his other hand at the wrist. Her eyes focus on nothing as she feels for his pulse and counts his heart rate. She doesn’t need to do the math to know that his heart is starting to beat much too quickly, even after a run. Sweat rolls down his arms and forehead.

Looking up, he locks eyes with Sonya.

“Look, honey,” he says, pushing her hands away so that he can wander over to one of the walls and slump down into a sitting position against it. “Either I die, or I don’t. There’s nothing you can do about it. Waiting here playin’ nurse ain’t gonna do you any good.”

“So what do you want me to do?” she asks, her eyebrows sinking into a scowl.

“Don’t worry about taking care of me. Just go on by yourself.”

“Why?” she demands, glaring.

He nods and shrugs. “I’d rather that one of us makes it. Besides, I’d rather die alone.”

“That’s what you would do,” the general says simply. “If it was me.”

“No,” he insists. “I could carry you a lot easier than you can me, and you don’t know the area. It’s just better if you move along.”

Sonya swallows her pride and frowns. “I can’t make it without you.”

“Yes, you _can_ ,” he insists. “You’re a big girl. Now get outta my sight _.”_ His eyes narrow into a glare, one that looks like he’s actually angry with her. His voice is sharp and cold and sounds like gun metal.

“What are you mad at _me_ for?” she demands. “I’m not the one that got your stupid ass bit.”

“I know you’re not,” he spits back. “So what are you doin’ trying to save me?”

Sonya strides up to him, sinks to a knee, and grabs him by the jaw, her skin rubbing against the worn leather of his mask. Her stare burns right into his, though she can see from up close that his eyes are barely focused. Her voice is low and husky and just as pissed off as his, though for totally different reasons. “You stopped me from saving my men and doing my _job_. I am _not_ letting you stop me from helping you, and I am not going home from this mission alone.”

Erron stares at her for a long moment; she can see his eyes trying their best to focus on her, lapsing in and out of clarity. It shakes her to the core to see the gunslinger’s keen gaze glazed over.

“You’ll never get to be my age if you keep tryin’ to save people.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks. “Then why do you keep trying to save me?”

Black just laughs, a comforting sound that she’s relieved to hear. “You’re pretty hot.”

Sonya actually smiles, reassured that the cowboy is at least partially his normal self.

“Also,” she says as she grips his bitten arm and holds it down steady against his stomach, “I don’t think I’m gonna get to be your age, anyway.”

She takes off his hat and pushes his shoulders forward so she can undo his mask. Erron helps her as best as he can with one hand, which isn’t much. It’s good to breathe the open air again once she removes it. She rolls up her jacket firmly and uses the sleeves to secure it against Erron’s wounded arm. His flesh is swollen and frighteningly discolored. Her lips and eyebrows sink into a look of worry.

“Aw, General,” Erron says weakly, but with a grin. “You do care.”

“Shut up,” she says, but doesn’t put much weight behind it.

The general swims in his vision. Erron groans, turns sideways, and vomits nothing but water, which quickly turns into a dry heave. “Guess a goodbye kiss is out of the question now,” he says hoarsely as he wipes his mouth on his poncho.

“It was always out of the question.”

A soft chuckle rocks his chest.

Sonya presses her fingers to his wrist again, monitoring his pulse.

“If I live,” Erron says hoarsely, “you have to play some pool with me.”

“You’re _going_ to live,” she insists. “Stop being such a drama queen.”

Pain twists his features. He starts to shake under her hands. His arms and legs jerk wildly, and Sonya uses all of her strength to pin him down. She can feel his muscles flex and soften underneath her. His eyes roll back into his head.  A lump forms in Sonya’s throat. She speaks softly to him. Whether or not it actually helps, she doesn’t know. The only noises he makes are grunts and groans.

“Erron,” she says. “You can’t give up on me. Don’t tell me we got all the way through the desert just for you to throw in the towel this close to the end.” She licks her lips and continues. “I’ll play a dozen rounds of pool with you if you just come out of this with me.”

Gradually, Erron quiets. His breathing slows, and he seems to lose consciousness. Putting her hand to his face, Sonya tries to wake him. When that doesn’t work, she resorts to pinching his good arm. Though that still doesn’t bring him out of it, Erron shifts away from her momentarily, his brows furrowing in what might be annoyance.

Sonya sits beside him and holds him upright, gauging his blood pressure every few minutes.

When the sun is square above them, he stirs. He swallows and licks his lips, opening and closing his good hand. It’s shocking how weak his fingers feel. It’s an effort just to curl them into a fist.

“Damn, I’m thirsty,” he says. His voice crackles.

Sonya reaches to his belt and starts untying his canteen. Erron puts his hand over hers, stopping them. “Don’t bother. You’ll just waste it.”

“I’ve had it with the defeatist attitude,” she says.

Erron goes quiet, resting his head against the wall. He isn’t even looking at her, just staring into space. His dust-brown hair is sticking damp to the sweat on his neck and face. His tan skin looks grey and ashen. Bullheaded Sonya will not be dissuaded. She sweeps a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. It comforts her to think that he probably won’t remember this, and she’s free to be a little nicer to the mercenary without him mistaking her intentions.

“You gotta cowboy up, Cowboy.” Every muscle in her face is taut.

Errons eyes move towards the sound of her voice, and he looks, but doesn’t see her. All he registers is blonde hair, a female voice, and hands that touch him gently. He forgets that it’s 2015 and finds himself instead in 1864.

“Sorry, Suzie,” he mumbles, grabbing at her fingers. “I shoulda been more careful.”

“No, _Erron_ ,” she says, prying her hand from his grasp, which is frighteningly weak. She captures his chin between two hands and tries, but fails, to capture his attention. “It’s Sonya. General Sonya Blade. Stay with me.”

“You know I gotta go,” Erron replies softly. “You coulda come, too, if you wanted.”

“You’re confused,” she says. “Erron.”

But she can’t get his attention. His eyes stare without focus. She puts her fingers on his wrist and feels his heartbeat slow.


	8. Epilogue: Bright Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm a loner. And a loner's gotta be alone."

Voices are in the room. He stirs and opens his eyes, but blinks at the intrusion of a bright white light. Is he dead?

“Hey there, Kemosabe,” says the very last voice in the universe that he wants to hear. If Erron is dead, he’s in hell, not that he didn’t expect that to be his final destination. “You gave my baby mama a real scare.”

“Cage,” warns a familiar, much more welcome voice. Erron forces his eyes open all the way to catch a glance at Sonya Blade, dressed down slightly in civilian clothes beside her ex-husband, who looks to be fresh out of the ICU himself.

Erron looks down and sees the obnoxious cleanliness of hospital gear. He feels the stiffness of the IV in his arm and claws at it; the general’s hands catch his and curl his fingers down.

“Hey there,” she says, “watch it. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

The cowboy tries to clear his vision with a long blink, but the good it does is minimal. He squints around the room, though every detail is blurry, then returns his eyes rapidly to Sonya’s face.

“How’d you swing this?” he asks, indicating the room around them.

“Special Forces showed in the end. The boys back at Control didn’t trust you; when they didn’t hear from me the first day, they suspected foul play. Which is lucky for you, ‘cause you’d be dead if they hadn’t found us.”

Erron snorts, a skeptical expression on his face. His eyes continue to travel around the room, though every darting movement makes him dizzy. “Where’s Suzie?” he asks abruptly, turning to Sonya.

With a start, she recognizes the name that Erron said in the midst of his hallucinations in the jungle and looks past him to the screen showing his vital signs – normal. Her eyebrows fall in puzzlement until Erron clarifies.

“My rifle,” he says, looking up at her with a doubtful expression, as if maybe she should be the one in the hospital bed.

“Oh,” Sonya says softly, then clears her throat and begins again in a more businesslike tone. “All of your things are here with you. I made sure of it.”

“My hat?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t bring you out of the jungle without your hat,” she says.

“Good.” Erron sits up. He tears the hospital gown right off of his chest and throws it onto the floor. “You should’ve left me there.”

“Whoa,” Johnny says, picking up the discarded garment. “Easy there, cowboy.” The movie star puts his hand out in an attempt to stop Erron’s movement. Erron knocks it away impatiently, twisting to look around the room.

“Boots,” he demands.

There’s no reply from anyone. Rolling his eyes, Erron removes the finger monitor. Machines all around the room begin to beep angrily.

“Where’s my stuff?” he asks again. Sonya thumps a white cardboard box down on the bed by its two handles. It’s joined by his rifle, pleasantly wooden in a room filled with plastic, linoleum, and glass.

“Black,” she says. “You really should stay.”

“I can’t,” the cowboy replies curtly. He rips the IV from his arm with a slight wince. Blood begins to well up and drip down his arm, and is ignored.

Sonya does him the courtesy of turning away when he begins to put on his clothes. Johnny, hesitating, finally just walks out of the room.

“You washed ‘em,” Erron observes, and he doesn’t sound happy about it.

“Yeah,” the general answers snappishly, her back still to him. “Didn’t realize you wanted to continue living in filth so badly.”

Still a bit unsteady on his feet, Erron does up all of the buckles and buttons that hold his ensemble together. He checks his bandoliers with practiced hands, making sure there’s not a cartridge out of place. In this instance, his mask is forsaken for the more convenient bandana, which he ties back under his hair with hands that still don’t remember all of their dexterity. Finally, with his revolvers at each hip, his rifle across his back, and his hat in his hand, he closes the distance between himself and the general.

“Hey,” he says.

Sonya turns and looks up at him. The difference in their heights is far more noticeable from so close. His eyebrows, so expressive, are soft, something one might even call affectionate.

“Thanks for the bailout.”

Sonya nods and replies, “It’s my job.”

“I’ll have to take a rain check on that drink,” he says.

She groans. “I just saved your life. Can’t you cut me some slack?”

“What?” he asks, grinning, as he hooks one finger through the top of his bandana and tugs it down past his mouth. “You wanna go now?”

The general shakes her head, glaring up at him. “That’s not what I mea—“

All Sonya manages is a sharp intake of breath, cutting off her own words, as the cowboy pushes her backward and nails her with a savage kiss. He braces one forearm flat against the wall while his other hand grips her tightly by the back of the head. He’s a greedy kisser, his warm, chapped lips working furiously against hers. Every inch of her body, from her chest out to her fingertips, goes warm and tingly. Startled, Sonya doesn’t have time to recover from the initial shock, decide that she wants to push him away, and then actually do it, before Erron breaks it off himself.

Feeling dizzy, Sonya lunges out to smack him, but she can’t bring herself to really deck a man who just climbed out of a hospital bed. That’s probably what Erron was counting on in the first place, she realizes, as he turns his cheek to absorb the slap and grins. She should have hit him harder.

 “Sorry,” he rumbles in a purr of a voice as he rubs his face, sounding extraordinarily unapologetic. “Didn’t know when I was gonna get a chance like that again.”

His eyes are flashing, even smoldering, as he puts his hat on his head and tips it to her. “Don’t kiss and tell now.” Last to vanish are his nose and lips, which disappear behind the grimy red fabric of his bandana. “See ya, sunshine,” he says, waving his hand in a loose farewell. She can’t see his smile, but she knows it’s there.

The last part of Erron that Sonya spies is his back as he strides through the door. His figure cuts a severe contrast to the hospital around him, so much leather and metal and rust-brown in such a stark, white environment. The cowboy melts through the building with implausible speed in his sauntering walk, his silhouette somehow fading through the figures of passersby like that of a mountain in the rain.

Moments later, Johnny Cage reappears in the room, looking over his shoulder in the direction that Erron just vanished.

“What was that about?” her ex-husband asks, squinting at her flushed cheeks.

Sonya shakes her head, taking care not to press a hand to her lips with Johnny there to see. Her expression combines a scowl with a rueful smirk as she answers.

“… He’s _such_ an asshole.”


End file.
